The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom
by xahra99
Summary: Post game fic.Malik and Altair search for the remaining Eden fragments in the deserts of the Sahara. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

'_Salt comes from the north, gold from the south and silver from the country of the white men, but the word of God and the treasures of wisdom are only to be found in Timbuktu'_

_West African proverb_

"_Search out the fragments. Bring death upon our enemies. Claim the pieces of Eden as our own ... go next to Timbuktu, in the kingdom of the Moors."_

_Nasr al-Ajami._

_Chapter One_.

_1193. Somewhere in the Sahara._

An eagle circled high over the desert dunes, looking for prey. Seeing none, it spread its wings and headed south on the thermals. For a very long while it saw nothing but acacia trees and the grey gravel plains that the Tuareg who lived there called _hamada_. At last, when the acacias and the gravel had given way to a never-ending sea of caramel-coloured sand, the eagle spotted a long line of men on camels. The travellers stood out starkly amongst the dunes; their silhouettes black as iron in the harsh and unrelenting desert sun. The bird's tiny brain associated men with camels with arrows that whistled unpleasantly past its wings. It circled away from the caravan and soared south.

The eagle had only flown a short distance when it saw another, smaller group of men. Caught by surprise, the eagle jerked sideways. It would have soared further if it had not noticed the tracks of a jerboa on the sand below. All other thoughts were suffocated beneath the hawk's hunting instincts as it began its dive.

"An eagle!" exclaimed Yunus al-Qahirah as the eagle stooped.

Malik, who had noticed the eagle several moments ago but who lacked the Cairene's habit of stating the obvious, looked up. "A good omen," he observed, hoping that al-Qahirah would not reply. The merchant had annoyed him as soon as they'd met. After months of travel it was all he could do to keep his blade from the man's throat.

Yunus al-Qahirah, mercifully unaware of Malik's train of thought, shrugged. "Hardly," he said. "Eagles feed on the flesh of the dead. I would have shot it if I had my bow and arrow."

Malik doubted that the merchant could hit a camel on a clear night. "For what purpose?" he inquired.

The merchant shook his head wonderingly at Malik's stupidity. "For sport, of course," he said. "Surely even Syrians kill eagles when they find them, just as we Cairenes do? Our two countries cannot be so different."

Malik shrugged. "I would not know," he told the merchant, "We hunt larger prey in Syria."

"Do you have desert lions still?"

Malik shrugged again. "Not exactly," he said.

Al-Qahirah sniffed, perhaps recalling that Malik was only the caravan's hired guard and therefore could not be expected to have a sensible opinion about anything. He made no more conversation. The merchant was not interested in anybody without camels or land to trade and he had not wanted to hire Malik and Altaïr as guards at all. It had taken a forged letter of recommendation from the most eminent camel-master in Cairo, an unpleasant and curiously specific illness affecting only al-Qahirah's two preferred caravan guards and a practical demonstration of their combined skill to change the fat merchant's mind. Malik wished that it had been safe for them to travel alone through the Sahara, but nobody travelled without a caravan in this desolate waste.

He tilted his head back and watched the eagle emerge from behind the high ridge of the dunes with empty talons. The soaring bird reminded him of home. Eagles nested in the rocks under Masyaf castle. They were often seen riding the air currents over the Orontes.

_And sometimes_, he thought, _they haunt Jerusalem's skies_.

The eagle jinked in its flight as if something had startled it. Malik's eyes narrowed.

Yunus al-Qahirah fanned his face with his sleeve and gazed at the dunes around him. "Where is your companion?" he demanded.

Malik had no idea. "No doubt he scouts ahead," he said diplomatically. He stood up in his saddle and glanced around, shading his eyes against the desert heat. After a few moments of searching he saw a small figure half way up a dune, flanked by a larger silhouette in the shape of a camel. "In fact, I think I see him there. If you will excuse me-"

Al-Qahirah waved his hand elegantly. He replaced it rather hurriedly on his saddle-bow as his camel stumbled again. "See that he does not wander off," he said.

"Of course, honoured one."

The merchant completely missed the sarcasm in Malik's voice. "Fetch him back," he said. "After all, he cannot guard the caravan from over _there_, peace be with him."

Malik rather doubted that Altaïr would wander off. There was nowhere to wander _to_. As he stared around at the scorching desert, he could almost believe that the small line of men and camels were the last people on earth. "Yes, honoured one. And with you, peace."

The merchant ignored the courtesy.

_Peace, and boils, and abject poverty, and plagues of flies_, Malik thought viciously. He hauled his camel's head out of the caravan line and set off down the procession at an uncomfortable trot. The animal jolted as if it was in the last stages of palsy, a gait which Malik had learned meant that it was in perfect health. The journey had forced him to learn rather more about camels than he had ever wanted to know.

He knew exactly enough about Altaïr to know that something was wrong as he yanked his camel to a grateful and knee-jerking halt beside Altaïr's mount. The Assassin crouched on his heels at the base of the dune. His face, visible only in a thin strip between his hood and the scarf he had wrapped around the lower half of his face to protect himself from the flying sand, was creased in a scowl. His camel wore a nearly identical expression.

Malik slid from his camel's back. He winced as the soles of his boots hit the hot sand. "Safety and peace, my brother," he said.

"I fear we have seen the last of both," Altaïr said in reply. He examined the sand at his feet intently. "What do you want?"

Malik rolled his eyes. He grabbed his camel's head-rope, jerked his hand back from a slashing bite, grabbed the rope again and tied it to Altaïr's camel's pack to stop the beasts from wandering off, or at least to prevent them wandering off quickly. "Al-Qahirah, may the ghouls crack his skull between their teeth like ripe grapes, is concerned that you do not travel close enough to the caravan for safety."

"Al-Qahirah," Altaïr said, "is a great deal safer the further he is away from me. And it is his safety that I am concerned with at present." He brushed the sand again, "It is no use. These cursed shifting sands-"

Malik crouched down beside him. "What?" he asked. "What do you see?"

Altaïr shrugged. "Trouble," he said, staring at the sand as if it held all the world's answers in its grains. "What else? Did you notice the eagle?"

"Yes. Your totem. At first I hoped it might signify good luck, but-"

"If it did, it would be the only good fortune we have had since entering this forsaken place." Altaïr said accurately. "The bird changed its course. I think there is an ambush up ahead. I thought I saw prints," he shook his head," but if I did, they are long gone."

Malik frowned. He reached down and sifted a handful of sand through his fingers. His sleeve fell back and he felt the brush of more grains on his bare skin. A fine haze of blowing sand veiled the surface of the dunes. Light but insistent, the sand's touch could flay a man's skin. Given centuries, it could sculpt stone. The tracks of raiders would be covered in moments. "How many men? Can you tell?"

Altaïr scowled. "There's no way of knowing. There could be one or two, or thirty." He shook his head. "They might not be raiders at all."

Malik considered. "You spoke of good fortune," he began, weighing the odds. "In truth, we have had none. If they are raiders, and there are more than one or two, then how do we proceed? Maybe we should inform the guides?"He paused, doubting the trustworthiness of Tuareg guides in a region populated by Tuareg bandits. "Unless, of course, they already know."

"We could kill them all-"Altaïr suggested.

"But guides are sadly required to escape this cursed desert." Malik let out a long breath. "Besides, we would need proof."

"A proof we are unlikely to obtain until we are choking on Tuareg steel."

"Nevertheless. I think that murdering our guides may cause at least some comment among the rest of the caravan. And the first tenet of the Creed is-"

"Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Yes, I know." Altaïr glanced over his shoulder at the straggling dark line of the caravan. "But our loyalty is to the Assassins, not to this band of roving merchants."

"And the second tenet?" Malik inquired.

Altaïr scowled. "You need not preach." he said. "The second law is that which gives us strength. Hide in plain sight. But the _third_ tenet is the most important. Do not harm the brotherhood. And I would say that allowing ourselves to be slaughtered in cold blood so that the Templars may find the Eden fragment hidden in Timbuktu instead would do the Brotherhood harm. Would you not?"

"I have no intention of allowing myself to be slaughtered." Malik retorted.

Altaïr's smile, half-hidden beneath his veil, was fierce. "Nor I. And not the rest of the caravan, if it should come to that, "His smile grew wider."Although I could make an exception for the merchant al-Qahirah."

"Yunus al-Qahirah is a pig," Malik conceded. "But he may yet listen to reason."

"Someone," Altaïr slid a sideways glance at Malik, "should inform him of our suspicions."

"On the strength of an eagle's change in flight? He will not listen."

"Then he is a fool," Altaïr said. "Besides, if he will not listen to the flight of eagles, he may yet make an exception for the Eagle's Vision."

Malik went very still. He could hear the drumming of the grains of sand at the base of the dunes. Behind them, Malik's camel began a lengthy series of feints and neck-waving bellows with Altaïr's mount. They kicked up drifts of sand that stung Malik's eyes. He pulled up his neck-scarf to mask his face. "You've marked the guards as enemies?"

Altaïr shrugged. "It seems that their intentions have changed since Cairo. They show crimson."

"How am I to explain that to the pig?"

Altaïr's smile, which had faded, returned. "That," he said precisely, "is your problem."

"You told me once," Malik said, "that we were on the same side. I think that you lied."

"And you told me once," Altaïr replied, "that you were always regarded as the clever one out of the two of us. Your conversation with al-Qahirah is less likely to be punctuated by a blade than mine is. I lost my patience with the man somewhere between Cairo and Koufra, and have not bothered to find it since."

Malik sighed. "Very well. I will tell him to halt the caravan. "He got to his feet, stumbling a little in the soft sand, and reached for his camel's head-collar."But he will not like it."

Altaïr shrugged. "You are a _rafiq_," he said, "but you complain like the newest recruit."

"And you are an idiot. But I travel with you none the less," Malik retorted. He untied the camel's lead-rope with difficulty and coaxed it to kneel with a mixture of praising and threats. Finally the camel relented, dropped to its knees and allowed Malik to mount, at which point an even more complex mixture of coercion and violence was required to get it to rise. "In truth, a fight will do us good. It has been months since we left Cairo."

"I am not seeking to avoid the battle altogether," Altaïr said as he swung himself aboard his own mount. "I-_we_-are out of practice. For all the empty spaces, this land's bareness leaves few places to practise secretly. And," he slapped his camel on the shoulder to make it rise, "there is nothing to climb."

Malik smiled. He missed the lost colour of Jerusalem, or even the quiet valley of Masyaf, with its library and its eagles. He missed talking to more than ten people a day. If he admitted it to himself, he even missed the respect of the other Assassins. He did not miss climbing, or at least not much. "A wise man does not seek a fight," he warned as they began to head back to the caravan.

"True enough," Altaïr said. He smiled. "It is a good thing, then, that neither of us has ever pretended to be wise."

"It _is_ true," Malik said reflectively, "that your speed with a blade outstrips your thoughts, on occasion."

Altaïr's face held the ghost of a smile beneath his veil. He kneed his camel into a trot. "And hopefully _your_ skill with the blade outstrips your skill with beasts," he said as Malik's camel jolted to keep up.

Malik cursed under his breath, but not too quietly. If we are not merchants, then neither are we camel drivers," he retorted. "And well do I remember watching you mount your camel in Cairo when we departed."

Altaïr snorted. "I remember nothing," he said as they approached the caravan. "Besides, I hope the speed of your tongue outstrips both your sword _and_ your camel. You will need it to convince al-Qahirah of our cause."

"Oh, I will convince him, "Malik said, "I will convince him even if I have to use my knife."

"One can only hope. If you need blades, then I will help," Altaïr offered. He turned his camel towards the rear of the caravan.

Malik sighed. "It will not come to that," he called after Altaïr.

A few moments later he was wishing that it had. Yunus al-Qahirah answered Malik's polite "Peace be upon you," with a grunt and a "Must you bother me? It is too hot to talk."

Malik agreed with the man. It was far too hot to talk. It was too hot to think. It was too hot to do anything besides hunch on his camel and think of all the other places he would rather be. And it was far too hot to be anywhere within the vicinity of Yunus al-Qahirah. After days of waterless desert travel they all stank, but the fat merchant's body oozed a scent like the carcass of a donkey three days dead. The man smelt worse than the Franj. He tried again and winced as a stray waft of the merchant's paper fan sent a wave of body odour gusting in his direction. "My lord, it is a most urgent matter. It concerns the guides."

Al-Qahirah frowned. Sweat rolled down his forehead and soaked into the blue cotton of his veil. "Speak, then."

Malik adjusted his grip on the camel's reins "My lord, we fear there may be an ambush ahead."

The fat merchant's brow furrowed. "An ambush? Who?"

"The Tuareg-"Malik began.

He was interrupted by a chuckle of laughter. "The Tuareg do not ambush! It is not their way. They do not simply fall on an unsuspecting caravan. They join the caravan at a meeting-spot, hoping to pick off unbelievers, men who own goods, men whom nobody will protect." Al-Qahirah chuckled again. "You have a lot to learn of the desert, my friend."

"Men who join the caravan," Malik said blandly, feeling the slow burn of anger in his chest. "Men like our guides?"

His question drew another great chuckle of laughter from the merchant. "The guides? Don't be a fool! Have I not purchased a _ghefara_, a permit, from the Tuareg in Agadez? And in Bilma, before that? And in Koufra, between Bilma and Cairo? We are safe, or as safe as we can be. I have travelled this route more times than you have fingers," he cast a sly glance at Malik's missing hand, "and I have never had a problem."

Malik gritted his teeth. The woven lead-rope bit tightly into his clenched fist. "Forgive me," he said in a voice that meant no such thing, "but is it not possible that you have bribed the wrong Tuareg?"

Yunus al-Qahirah's eyes narrowed. He flicked his fan. "It is always possible, but not likely. Tell me, what proof have you?"

Malik tried to explain without mentioning Altaïr's eagle vision. "The eagle-"

"What about the bird?"

"It changed course in the sky. Something startled it, my lord," –calling al-Qahirah 'my lord' grated like a sword against glass, but he thought it best-"and my companion thinks-"

"Hang your companion!" al-Qahirah snapped. "I should never have taken you on in Cairo. But it was late notice, and I, God help me-I was desperate." He gave Malik a disparaging look. "I will not make that mistake again. I have hired guides from the same tribe for years and I have never-"

"Until now, "said Malik, dispensing with all courtesy.

He had the utter satisfaction of seeing Yunus al-Qahirah lost for words for a second before the merchant opened his mouth. His face turned the fiery hue of the sands. "If _you_-"

And then the Tuareg attacked.

The first thing Malik knew of it was a thin black line appearing over the top of one sand-dune. The dunes formed a deep and narrow V at that point, angling down to a shallow valley studded with salt-bushes. The black line condensed as it grew closed and resolved into the figures of several men mounted on slender fast _mehari_ racing camels. They wore deep blue turbans pulled low over their faces. Each man carried a long stick in his left hand, which he rapped against the camels' neck to guide them, and a naked blade in hid hand. The metal of the swords gleamed in the bright noon sun. Foam flew from their camels' mouths.

Yunus al-Qahirah's mouth dropped open. "You-"he stuttered, as if Malik had brought the calamity upon them simply by warning of the possibility of danger. "You-you must protect us."

Malik reached under his saddle to check the knives hidden there. His camel snorted and swayed, infected by the sight of the racing camels hurtling towards them. "I do not have to take orders from you, you slimy fat salt merchant," he said as he drew the knives one by one and stabbed them blade-first into the padded pommel of the saddle for easy accessibility.

Al-Qahirah's mouth gaped open in a perfect circle.

"Stay here and keep quiet," Malik snapped. "And if you do not, it will be you who is to blame. Your death will not be on my head." He jabbed at his camel's flanks with his heels and the beast surged forwards. Before the beast had taken more than a dozen strides he heard the drum-beats of camel hooves from behind him as Altaïr galloped up.

"How went the conversation?" the Assassin asked.

Malik shrugged, as well as you could manage to shrug aboard a speeding camel," Badly," he said, and then there was no time for talk. The Tuareg were upon them.

Author's notes: This story is a sequel to my previous AC story: _Both Worlds as Our Companion_ and part of my larger AC story arc that starts with The Cross and The Sword. As long as you know who the characters are you should be able to enjoy this up to a point, but you'd probably enjoy it even more if you've read at least one of my other AC fics previously.

Just saying.

Although I hate to blame the Tuareg for everything, they were infamous for infiltrating medieval Arab caravans, searching out the solitary travellers that nobody was going to miss, killing then, stealing their money and then sneaking away across the dunes. This is a rather more direct approach, solely because I wanted to write a camel charge. The Cairo-Koufra-Bilma-Agadez-Timbuktu route across the Sahara would be at least possible at the time this story is set.

And I am not exaggerating about the perverseness of camels.


	2. Chapter 2

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Two._

They met the Tuareg charge like a rock breaking the smooth flow of a wave. There were ten nomads; wiry blue-robed men mounted on camels slightly smaller than those of the Assassins. They yelled as they charged and waved their swords in the air.

Malik watched them ride closer. When he was close enough to see beads of sweat on their attackers' faces he loosed his daggers. The first knife buried itself in a nomad's eye-socket. The Tuareg yelled and stood up in his saddle. He clawed uselessly at the hilt of the dagger for a moment before his arms went limp and he toppled from his camel with a thud and a puff of sand. Malik's second knife thudded into the neck of another camel, which screamed like a woman, slumped to its knees and slammed into his mount's flank.

Malik's camel shuddered under him like a boat in a storm. He fought to keep his balance and only just succeeded. He reached under the saddle for his sword-he had no wish to lose the weapon should the animal go down-and realized even as he did so that there were too many men. None of the remaining nomads had headed for the merchants. Worse, the caravan was moving away behind them.

"Altaïr!" he called, raising his voice to carry over the hubbub of fighting men and dying beasts, "The merchants! They're leaving!"

If Altaïr replied, Malik did not hear it. He watched the caravan leave from behind a fence of Tuareg blades and felt his heart sink. He had not expected the merchants to fight, but neither had he expected them to abandon them.

The Tuareg fighters closed in and Malik forgot about the merchants altogether. His world narrowed to blood and dust and the point of a blade. Altaïr fought like a demon beside him, calm as the eye of a sandstorm while blue-robed men and bawling camels whirled around him. Malik kept Altaïr to his left, hoping to compensate for his missing arm. His strategy worked well until one of the Tuareg forced his own camel between them. The Tuareg camel, as ill-tempered as its owner, slashed at the soft muzzle of Malik's beast. Malik's camel tossed up its head and shied away. Malik kicked the camel in the ribs to force it around. The camel let out a howl like that of a particularly angry muezzin and balked. An ill-timed sweep of Malik's sword almost removed one of its ears. It shied again.

Malik decided that fighting on camelback was as sensible as fighting on shifting sand. He ducked a slash from a Tuareg sword as the nomads pressed in closer. There was hardly room to swing a sword in the crush. Malik sheathed his own blade in one easy movement and grabbed another of his knives He counted seven Tuareg left. Altaïr cut one man's throat, and they were down to six.

Malik aimed his knife at a nomad's eye and let the blade fly. He heard the solid _thunk_ of a good blow a second later. He had just enough time for a moment of triumph before his camel listed sideways like a sinking ship, tripped and went down on its face as if pole-axed. Malik fought to stay mounted, lost his struggle in the crush and slid to his knees in the sand before his dying mount.

There were still six mounted Tuareg.

The closest nomad leapt from his own camel and advanced upon Malik with murder in his eyes. Malik reached up to his saddle-bow to grab a dagger. His questing fingers touched the hilt of his own throwing-dagger, jutting from the back of his own camel's skull.

Cursing, Malik reached for his sword.

The sword, he quickly discovered, had fallen beneath the camel's body, and was therefore inaccessible. Malik's curses increased in both quality and imagination as he pulled his last knife from the pommel of the saddle.

Curved daggers were the Assassins' weapon of choice when striking from cover at an unsuspecting enemy. Daggers were _not_ the Assassins' –or any sane man's-weapon of choice when outnumbered by heavily armed fighting men.

_And the problem with throwing daggers_, Malik thought_, is that you often run out of daggers before you run out of victims._

He stepped backwards until his shoulders touched the still-warm hump of the camel's body. The prone beast's back reached to his head and offered at least some shelter from his opponents. The sand around the camel's body was cool and damp. Surprised, Malik glanced down and realized that the camel had fallen onto the water skins slung beneath its belly. The sight and smell of the flowing water made Malik's mouth dry.

He did not move.

The Tuareg hung back. The sound of clashing swords and cursing men drifted from the other side of the camel's hump. Malik welcomed the noise. It meant that Altaïr was still fighting, still alive. He could see only four Tuareg now.

Another nomad slid from his camel. He joined the first and they advanced warily. Malik clutched his knife and tried desperately to think of a strategy. He discounted the old sand in the eyes trick on the basis that the nomads probably knew it already. There was more than enough sand blowing around already. His eyes stung.

_Four men._

Malik thought that it was probably too many. He hoped that he was wrong.

The Tuareg crept closer. Malik raised his knife. A shallow sword-slash across his forearm dripped blood into the sand. He had not noticed it until now.

He heard a thud from the other side of the camel. Seconds later a Tuareg mount galloped past them on unsteady legs. It snorted and threw its rider into the sand. The man did not move.

_Three men_, Malik thought.

He blinked sand from his eyes and threw his remaining knife. For an awful moment neither man moved and he thought that he had missed. A second later the closest Tuareg toppled backwards without a sound. Malik saw the polished handle of his knife silhouetted against the bright sand as the man collapsed onto his back.

The remaining Tuareg looked at Malik's empty hands and lunged forwards.

Malik dodged the blow. He jumped backwards until his feet were firmly planted on wet sand and his right hand rested on the dead camel's shoulder. The Tuareg hissed something that Malik could not understand and swung again.

Malik tensed.

As the blade hissed past his ribs he leapt and hauled himself atop the camel's back with his one remaining hand. The blade bit deeply into the camel's hide and wedged in a rib. The nomad yanked fruitlessly at the sword-hilt.

Malik took advantage of the brief respite. He dragged himself to a kneeling position. He took hold of the leather-wrapped hilt of the knife that had killed his camel and pulled with all his might. For a moment the blade did not move and then it slid free slowly.

_Too slowly_, Malik thought. The leather wound around the hilt of the knife had worn smooth with years of use. It slipped in Malik's sweat-streaked palm. The Tuareg hissed and drew his dagger. He reached up to slash at Malik's leg. Malik abandoned the knife, jerked back and fell off the camel.

He fell heavily onto the yielding corpse of a dead man. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but instinct and training had him up on his feet in seconds. He clutched his ribs and looked around for a weapon he could use as the Tuareg stepped smiling over the camel's limp neck.

There was a hiss and a _thud_.

The Tuareg swayed and collapsed onto his face in the sand. The hilt of a throwing-knife jutted out between his shoulder blades.

Malik let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He turned around slowly and saw Altaïr's silhouette against the setting sun. There were no Tuareg left to kill. "My thanks,"

Altaïr shrugged. "It was a good fight," he said. He did not even seem to be breathing hard.

Malik wiped sweat from his face. "A good fight? We nearly died." He looked around at the bodies of men and camels piled under the burning sky.

Altaïr slid from his camel. "Nearly, he said, "but not quite," He wedged the camel's lead-rope under the body of one of the Tuareg and began to examine the corpses."They were foolish."

"A few more men and they would have had us," Malik snapped as he recovered his knives one by one from the eyes or hearts of dead men.

"Still. We prevailed," Altaïr said. "It is strange, though. I wonder what they wanted."

"If you had not killed them all then we might have found out," Malik retorted.

"Not all," Altaïr said.

The grim tone of his voice made Malik look up. "One's alive?"

"Yes. But not for long."

Malik walked over to where Altaïr knelt beside one sprawled body. The Tuareg was still alive but the most cursory glance told Malik that Altaïr was right. He wouldn't be alive for long. A knife-Malik's or Altaïr's-it was impossible to tell-jutted from the right-hand side of his ribcage.

"Is he-" Malik stretched out his hand.

"_Don't touch it_!" the Tuareg gasped. His eyes rolled, displaying the whites. A cloud of fine red mist sprayed from his lips. Scarlet blood soaked into the blue cotton fabric of his veil and dyed it violet. His accent was strange, but his Arabic was perfectly intelligible.

"I won't," Malik said. "At least, not yet."

"Speak quickly," Altaïr demanded. "Why did you attack us?"

The Tuareg bared his teeth" Why..?" His breath wheezed. "For...money. Why...else? Said...tell you."

Malik frowned "Tell us?"

Blood welled around the Tuareg's white teeth. His eyes rolled back into his head and returned with a visible effort. "Said...Tell you, when you died... 'May the Father...of understanding guide you."

Altaïr shared a glance with Malik. It was not the first time either of the Assassins had heard the Templar motto. It would probably not be the last. But after months of travelling into the wild west Malik had hoped that they had left the Templars far behind.

It looked like he had been wrong.

"Are you sure?" Altaïr demanded. "Those were the words?"

That...was...all," the Tuareg gasped. He smiled, ghastly with gore."Is...enough. You...will...die."

Malik frowned. "Not us,"

"May...be." the Tuareg groaned. He fell silent, but the hilt of the knife buried in his chest rose and fell with every breath. A bubble of blood burst between his lips. Malik, who had seen many men die, knew that the man could not hold on for much longer.

"Tell us more, and we'll ease your passage to the next world." Altaïr offered.

The nomad's eyes flicked to Altaïr, and then away. "There is...no more...to tell."

"Who paid you?"

"They...called...themselves...Templars. They were...not...of..the desert." The Tuareg grimaced. "Just...like...you. You know nothing... of this...place. Enjoy... your victory. The _harmattan_ blows soon... and.. you will be swept...away." His eyes widened and fixed on the horizon.

"What do you mean?"

The nomad did not answer. His pupils dilated and a shudder passed through his body. His chest jerked once, spasmodically, and then he was still.

"Peace be with you," Malik said. He pulled the man's blue veil up to cover his face.

"Peace be with him," Altaïr said. "Even though he did not deserve it."

Malik yanked the knife from between the corpse's ribs. Blood trickled out and clotted on the sand as he wiped the blade clean. "Do you think he was right? Templars? Here?" He picked up the dead man's sword and stuck it in his sash to replace his own weapon.

"They must be," Altaïr said.

"Then they are far from home."

Altaïr's smile was sharp. "So are _we_."

Malik shrugged. He felt the hot breath of the wind upon his face and remembered the _harmattan _that the Tuareg had spoken of. They sky overhead was clear. There was no sign of a storm. "Let's find the caravan. They can't have travelled far."

"Then we'll be on our way." Altaïr got up. "Find another mount from among the Tuareg beasts. Whatever they're like, it can't be worse than the last one you picked."

Malik scowled. They picked their way back down the ridge and returned to the battlefield. Ridges of sand already flanked the bodies. The dunes would conceal them before too long. The dead camel's hump jutted like a pyramid from the drifts. A couple of the surviving Tuareg camels huddled in its lee, nostrils tightly closed against the heat.

Malik sidled up to the closest animal. To his surprise, it did not run away. It seemed reluctant to move at all. He stroked a hand down its flank and sparks crackled from his fingers. The camel blinked at him and closed its heavy-lidded eyes. Malik tapped its knee, and it lowered its neck obediently for him to climb on board.

"This one seems better than the last," he said as he tapped the camel's knee again and it rose obediently to its feet.

Altaïr snorted. "It would be hard for it to be worse."

Malik nodded and kicked the camel forwards.

After an eventful few moments, he learnt that he did not have to hack quite as hard with his heels at the new camel's sides to force it to move. A gentle touch, he found, often sufficed.

"It seems fast enough," Altaïr said conversationally.

Malik closed his eyes, recalling the sinking feeling in his stomach as the Tuareg camel skittered sideways like a beetle over the dunes. It was not an experience he wished to repeat. He ignored Altaïr.

"Are you sure that you will survive to find the caravan? You can choose another camel."

"I will be fine," Malik said through clenched teeth

They circled the camels around the still bodies and rode off after the caravan.

The caravan was nowhere to be found.

Malik and Altaïr searched the dunes. They found nothing except salt-bushes and vistas of empty sand. There were no people. There were no camels. There were no footprints to be found. The horizon was tinged with ochre dust. Malik tried to remember whether or not the sky had looked like that after the battle or whether it was just his imagination. He thought that it probably had not.

"We are lost," Altaïr said through his teeth after a while.

Malik nodded. The main thing he recalled about the deep desert was that very few things could possibly survive there. This was not a reassuring thought. He had found books of travellers' tales in the Masyaf library that spoke of armies perishing in these sands-thousands of men, their weapons and banners covered over by oceans of sand, never to be found again. He did not mention any of the tales to Altaïr. "Let us return to the battleground to collect more water," he said practically.

The Assassins retraced their steps. The tracks petered out on the high ridge of a sand-blown dune. The battleground was nowhere to be seen. Malik and Altaïr reined in their camels and looked around. Dunes surrounded them. They rose in saffron ridges against the hazy sky and rolled like waves beneath their camels' feet.

"The Tuareg was right about one thing," Altaïr said after another hour of fruitless searching. "We know nothing of this desert. It is not like our Syrian plains." He turned and pointed back to the trail of boat-shaped footprints the camels left behind them. It took only five paces for their tracks to peter out; erased by the desert as if nothing had ever been there. "It holds no trail for long."

"The Tuareg must have known how to track us," Malik pointed out. "There has to be some way."

"I do not see how, "Altaïr's voice held more than an edge of frustration, "It cannot be easy to lose so many men-so many camels-even in this desert,"

"It cannot be that hard, as it seems we have succeeded," Malik retorted. He turned to the saddlebag slung behind the wooden saddle, hoping against hope to find a map or an astrolabe that would give them some direction. He found nothing except for a verminous blanket. The wool popped and sparked as he ran his hand across it.

Altaïr glared at the landscape as if it had personally insulted him. "There is not even a vantage point to climb!"

"I had noticed that."

"How then-"

"Wait until nightfall," Malik told him. "We can navigate by the stars. Timbuktu is east of here. We have a better chance of finding a city in these lands than a handful of men. "

Altaïr snorted. "What until then?"

"Until then," Malik said, "we wait."

They unloaded the camels and settled down to wait for nightfall. Gradually, the wind intensified. The ochre haze on the horizon that Malik had noticed grew closer. Gales whipped at the Assassins' hoods and whistled around the dunes.

"The _harmattan_-" Altaïr said after a while.

"Again, I had noticed." Malik set his teeth. Summer storms were common in Jerusalem. Storms in the city were little more than a nuisance that clogged the fountains with red dust and ripped shutters from the windows. He did not want to think about the damage that a storm could do in this barren waste.

"There's no shelter." Altaïr said. It was a statement, not a question.

"None for miles."

Altaïr shook his head. He said nothing else. There was nothing else to say, or at least nothing that would possibly make the situation any better. The air grew dark with sand, a great, foggy, enveloping cloud of sand. As the sky darkened, the temperature rose. Altaïr hunched motionless in the sand. Malik wiped sweat from his face at first, though as the storm grew closer it dried before it even reached his skin. His mouth felt dry as bleached bone. The air grew thicker with dust, until it seemed to Malik that he breathed not sand-laden air but a desert with occasional spaces between the grains. The sun turned a lurid yellow and then all but vanished. The camels bellowed uneasily and shifted their great plate-like feet.

"We must camp," Malik shouted over the howl of the wind.

Altaïr looked sceptically around at the howling storm."Here?"

"Do you see any better?"

"I can't see anything!"

"Exactly!" Malik jerked on his camel's head-rope and persuaded it to kneel. Altaïr, a faceless form in white robes, did the same, and they took shelter behind the warm bulk of Altaïr's mount. Malik's _mehari_ hunkered down with her back to the wind, closing double-lidded eyes and hair-lined nostrils against the storm. Malik wished that he could do the same. His eyes smarted from the sand. Instead, he pulled his hood over his face and waited.

After a while, time slowed. Then it stopped. There was nothing except the flying sand and the pitch-black storm clouds overhead. Malik guessed that it was almost time for the evening prayer. He had no way of knowing for certain. Water-clocks and sundials were yet another thing that the desert did not have. The sky was as black as night. The wind showed no sign of stopping. The green gardens of the Nile seemed a very long way away.

Malik glanced at Altaïr. The other Assassin was a darker silhouette in the howling fog. A white coat of sand blanketed his feet. There was sand everywhere. Malik's chest burned with it. It rasped against his skin. It rattled against his arms and legs like hail. It built up in dunes against the motionless flanks of the camels.

The storm stopped gradually, in fits and starts and flurries. It was near midnight by the time Malik could breathe without choking. Above his head, the stars glittered like ice around a sickle moon. The sand was freezing now, icy cold under his feet, and he was glad for the warmth that leached through the camel's ragged hide.

Altaïr shook sand from his robe and got to his feet. He checked his weapons, stretched and looked around. "That was not an experience I would like to repeat," he said.

"My thoughts exactly," Malik said as he shook out his own robes. No matter how much sand he dislodged, there always seemed to be more. His skin felt as if it had been flayed. The heat was like a vice that gripped the side of his head. "Still, we should not get another for a time."

"Another?"

"It's possible."

Altaïr sighed as he goaded his reluctant camel to its feet. The beast snorted sand from its nostrils and shook its head. "How close do you reckon Timbuktu?"

Malik did a quick calculation. "A week. At least."

"A long way."

"Indeed."

"How much water do we have?"

"Only a small amount," Malik said. The Tuareg's water-skin was smaller than he thought wise for desert travel and tasted strongly of goat. "A few days, maybe. Three, four if we are lucky." He looked at the water-skin slung under Altaïr's camel's belly. A single glittering drop fell from the skin and soaked into the sands as he watched. Malik wondered if he should tell Altaïr and realised as the other Assassin pushed his hood back that he already knew.

They mounted the camels, put the North Star on their right shoulder and headed due east. The slow drip, drip, drip of water leaking from Altaïr's water-skin haunted Malik's mind.

_Three days_, he thought.

Author's note:

The bit where Malik kills his own camel by knifing it accidentally in the head is taken from a similar incident in T.E Lawrence's (yes, _that _Lawrence) memoir _The Pillars of Wisdom_. There's plenty of equally if not more dramatic videos of sandstorms on Youtube.

And yes, they're in deep shit. See you later.


	3. Chapter 3

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Three._

Malik had guessed three days, but it was more like two when his _mehari_ staggered around the lee side of a dune and collapsed onto her side. She gave no warning of her fall, only a sonorous groan as she hit the ground. Malik toppled from her saddle. He landed in the sand some distance away, rolled and dragged himself to his feet. Just as he got up, the camel gave a great cough and died. Blood pooled from one nostril. It was a few hours past dawn and the heat was already unbearable.

Altaïr's camel shambled on a few steps before the Assassin dragged it to a halt. He jumped off and came over to Malik.

Malik shook his head. "She's dead."

They both looked at the cooling body. Malik untied the water-skin from the saddle and squeezed it out. It was already empty. Both of them knew that their chances of survival, already slim, had just become even more tenuous. The dunes had petered out into rocky plains, with only the occasional ridge of sand to add variety to the dreary landscape. They had not seen as much as a salt bush for a day. There was no sign of human habitation. This was not a place where men lived. It was a place where men died.

"Do you think that this is the right way?"

Malik's memories of the Masyaf maps were becoming increasingly muddled. He shrugged and glanced around at the barren desert. "Does it matter? We cannot stay here."

"I suppose it does not," Altaïr kicked at the gravel. "If we keep moving, we may yet find a well."

Malik nodded doubtfully. They had seen no wells since Agadez. They had tried to dig one, but it had filled in with powdery sand. He remembered that certain types of desert plants could supply water if cut open, but this dry plain was too desolate even for plant life to survive. It was probably too desolate for two Assassins to survive, but Malik saw no harm in trying.

They loaded the camel with Malik's weapons and blanket and kept walking. The sun rose high in the sky. Their shadows shrunk beneath them. The camel trudged along. After a while it groaned and dropped to its knees. They poured water down its nostrils and coaxed it to rise without much hope. They had not walked much further when the camel lay down and refused to move another step. Malik knew exactly how it felt.

"We should kill it." Altaïr said.

Malik clicked his tongue and urged the camel up. It rose to its knees and slumped back. The soles of its feet were ragged with tattered skin. The rough plains had worn through its tough soles like old silk slippers. "This ground's too hard for it."

"This land is too hard for more than the camel." Altaïr said. He untied the water-skin from underneath the camel's belly and shook it experimentally. Water sloshed noisily around. Malik estimated it was less than a third full. "Enough for a day, by my judgment. Kill it and let's move on. We may still find water."

Malik looked doubtfully at the heat-haze that hung over the dunes. He could not think of any other option. It was a shame, he thought, that the same theory had no doubt been applied by a hundred dead men. The air was so hot that it shimmered. "We are chasing the wind," he muttered.

"Do you think Nasr planned this?"

Altaïr turned to him in surprise. "Nasr? No. It is true," he added after a moment's thought, "that the Persian Master does not exactly favour us-"

"That is an understatement," said Malik.

"But he would not willingly sacrifice an Eden fragment. Nor would he see the Templars victorious. He is an Assassin, for all his faults. As are we."

"I have not forgotten. But we cannot fight the sun."

Altaïr glared up at the blazing orb overhead as if he would happily plunge a dagger into its heart. "We waste time here. Let's be on our way."

They slaughtered the camel and collected its blood in Malik's empty water-skin, where it clotted unpleasantly and attracted small black flies. In better times, the Assassins would have spurned such food. These were not better times.

They set out again across the desert.

The sun inched slowly towards zenith and then just as slowly began its descent. It was too hot to think. It was too hot to walk, but the Assassins did anyway, dragging through the sands in a desperate race against time.

The water lasted until the next morning, and then it was gone. Sunrise found Altaïr and Malik huddled in the shelter of a dune. They shivered in the chill of an early desert morning as they considered their options. It didn't take long. There were none.

"Drop the weapons." Malik said after a while.

Altaïr's face was nearly invisible between his hood and the veil that he had pulled up over his nose and mouth. Malik sensed rather than saw him frown. "What?"

"Who...are you going to kill here? Don't ...need them."

Altaïr scowled. He pulled his throwing knives from his sash one by one and dropped them in the sand. Malik discarded the cross-hilted Tuareg sword that he had looted from the battle. He kept a single knife.

Altaïr retained his sabre as well as his hidden blade. "I'm keeping...my sword."

"Your funeral," Malik told him. He worked his mouth but did not dare to spit. He was hungry, but the hunger was nothing compared with the thirst. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth. His head ached. "We should...press on. It'll be even hotter soon."

Altaïr shook his head, but he got up. They staggered on in silence and left the weapons on the ground.

The rest of the day was a torment of sand and heat. Even the camel's blood was gone. The plains stretched out endlessly without variation. Malik watched his own feet drag past and thought of all the things they could have done differently, starting with 'more water' and moving on from there. Altaïr said nothing.

Malik's thoughts wandered while he trudged mechanically forwards. He expected to see mirages of palm-fringed oases. Instead he saw nothing but the plains and the great yellow ridges of the dunes. It was a bit of a disappointment. He did not consider himself devout enough to see visions of Paradise, but he had not expected dying of thirst to be this dull.

_Of course_, he thought, _this could be Hell_._ It's certainly similar to the scriptures. _

After a while, he stopped thinking at all. There was only the slow rhythm of footsteps, the blue sky overhead and the sands beneath his feet. He fell for the first time around midday, and did not even realise he was falling until he hit the gravel. Altaïr shuffled on a few steps before he stopped and turned. Without a word, he turned back to Malik, bent down and slung his arm over his shoulder. They limped on together for a couple of steps before Malik gathered his limbs-and his wits-enough to protest. "I can walk."

Altaïr looked at him. He said nothing, but he released Malik's arm. Malik staggered for a second before he steadied himself and they set off again. They had reached the next dune before Altaïr stumbled.

By sunset they sat in the sands, too exhausted to move.

Malik saw no visions of water-he had gone past thirst. He knew there was a prayer, some words that he should be saying, that Altaïr and he had promised each other on the roof of the cathedral high above Acre, but he could not remember the words. He tried-_Oh God, forgive our living and our dead_-managing a single sentence before the words spilled from his brain as easily as the water that they craved. He heard Altaïr's quiet breathing next to him and thought he saw the mud-brick walls of a great city rising above them.

"Are ...we ...there?"

"No. It's only a dune."

Faces swam through Malik's fading vision. He saw his brother Kadar, who had died at the hands of Robert de Sable and his Templars. He saw his parents, who had left them both at Masyaf as children. He saw the sinuous curve of Nusaybah's spine as she rose from the cushions in the garden of the Jerusalem Bureau. He saw no visions of sweet water, and made a mental note to correct any of the books in the Masyaf library that discussed such things, should he return.

He had to admit that the possibility seemed unlikely.

Malik sank back and closed his eyes. The parade of faces continued in the darkness behind his eyelids. He saw the Assassins Abbas and Rauf. Al Mualim. Ibrahim ben Ishaq, the old Cairene Jew. Conrad of Montferrat, who had died at Altaïr and Malik's knives. Madj Addin. Yusuf al-Asad. Malik told them all to leave him alone, that he was trying to die. The faces said nothing. After a while they went away.

Malik toppled slowly over onto his side.

High above, an eagle soared unnoticed.

When he opened his eyes again it was freezing cold. He blinked and saw the stars wheeling above his head. They were diamond-bright and very far away. Malik lay on his back and gazed up at them. It was very peaceful. He didn't want to move.

Someone poured water on his face.

Malik jerked upright in surprise and shouted. Or at least he tried to. In practice he croaked and rolled over onto his side. Some of the water went in his mouth and he swallowed. The water was brackish and tasted faintly like camels, but it was the most wonderful thing in the world. His head lanced through with pain like knives and he groaned and closed his eyes again.

"I thought you were dead." Altaïr said from somewhere above his head.

"Then you should have known I would survive," Malik croaked, "...just to prove you wrong."

"And_ I_ should have known that the first thing out of your mouth would be an insult," Altaïr said.

Malik opened his eyes again.

Altaïr loomed above him, his face enveloped in his white hood. A scruffy boy who wore the blue veil of a Tuareg knelt next to him. He looked pleased to see that Malik was alive. Malik decided that he must be from a different tribe than the Tuareg who had attacked them. His ears adjusted to the sound of people setting up camp around them. He heard camels bellowing and camel herders cursing at the camels. A fire crackled somewhere behind him. The air smelt of smoke. He saw a few people shrouded in heavy robes against the cold. They looked like Tuareg too, although their camels were large and heavily laden in the fashion of the eastern merchants rather than the sleek desert _meharis_ of the raiders. Malik had no clue what all of it meant.

The boy leaned forwards and smiled at Malik. His teeth flashed unexpectedly white in his dark face. "He's alive! I'll fetch the master!"

Altaïr nodded. The boy hurried away.

"What-?"

Altaïr shook his head, almost imperceptibly. He laid the fingers of his right hand along his jawbone in a gesture that Malik recognized as Assassin-sign for _keep quiet and follow my lead_. He had hidden his mutilated left hand in the folds of his robes.

"More...water?"

Altaïr handed Malik the water skin. The water did not get any sweeter with time-in fact it tasted worse-but he would not have parted with it for a handful of golden dinars. He could have drunk an ocean of it. He drank until his stomach sloshed. "It's good to see you in one piece, my friend," he said when at last he felt able to stop drinking.

"You as well, brother." Altaïr agreed. Underneath his hood he looked pleased-or as pleased as Altaïr ever was.

"What-" Malik began. He was interrupted by the reappearance of the boy. He was followed by an old Tuareg who looked as wizened as a desert acacia.

Altaïr coughed. "This is Shindouk Mohammed al-Hassan Moctar," he said, gesturing to the old man with a wary expression that cautioned Malik not to give too much away. "He rescued us from the desert. We are in his debt."

The old Tuareg nodded. "I thought that you would die," he said cheerfully. His face creased like a date that had been left for too long in the sun.

I told him he was wrong," Altaïr said. "You are stronger than you look. This is," he added, "not hard, at present."

Malik looked down at himself. He was filthy. What he could see of his arms and hands was blistered by the sun. Somebody had wrapped him in a rough wool blanket that looked and smelt as if it had been woven out of goat hide. He had, he had to admit, seen better days. "It seems that you have my thanks," he said to Shindouk with a throat that felt like sandpaper.

The old man smiled. "It was my pleasure and my duty," he said, rather formally. "Are you well?"

Malik nodded. He was rather far from well, but he knew his manners. "Thanks be to God," he said, "I am well. And you?"

"I am well," the old man said with rather more patience than Malik. "How is your family?"

Malik had no idea. It was fortunate, he thought, that it didn't matter. Etiquette demanded that he say that they were well. "Blessed. And yours?"

"Well too," the old man said in a courtly tone that would have been more at home in a palace than a desert camp. "Peace be with you. You have honoured us."

Malik edged himself upright in the sand. "I doubt that very much," he said, reverting to less formal speech. "My comrade tells me that we owe you our lives."

Shindouk smiled. "It is of no matter," he said, as breezily as if he meant it. He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Marîd found you both lying in the sand. I thought for certain you were dead. I was wrong."

"Shindouk has extended us the hospitality of his tribe," Altaïr said. "He has promised to guide us to Timbuktu."

"We share both a destination and a trade, it seems," Shindouk said.

Malik's gaze went immediately to the fingers on the man's left hand. All four were present. "Your trade?"

Altaïr frowned. Shindouk smiled indulgently, as if the sun had addled Malik's brain. "We are both booksellers! A happy coincidence indeed!"

"Indeed," Malik agreed. He shot a glance at Altaïr. The other Assassin shrugged. "Is it far to Timbuktu?"

Shindouk shook his head. "No. It is not too many days south-east of here-"

Malik spat sand. _"South-east_?"

Shindouk smiled. "Of course. We have come south from Fez. You, I imagine, have come further. Still. We will talk later. We have plenty of time. I have arranged that we shall camp here today, so that you will regain your strength."

"We delay your progress." Malik said. His head swam. There was nothing north of Timbuktu but wild desert. He realized that they must have circled the city without knowing it.

Shindouk smiled benignly. "It is of no matter. We make good time."

Malik put the water-skin down. He touched his lips and then his heart and bowed with as much respect as he would have shown the Master. "We owe you a great debt indeed," he said. "We were nowhere near the place we had expected. Had you not found us, we would certainly have perished."

The Tuareg waved his hand. "There is always someone along here," he said.

"There is?"

"Of course. Almost every week." Shindouk gestured to the empty water-skin in Malik's hand. "You have drunk all your water. Have you had enough?"

_No_, Malik thought. His throat was already raw from swallowing and he forced himself to agree. "Yes."

"You are wise," Shindouk said. "Drink carefully, that is the way. There will be later, if you want it. I shall bring dates. In a few days we will be in Timbuktu."

"So soon?"

"If God wills," Shindouk said cheerfully. "But enough of formality. What of you? From where do you travel?"

Malik decided that there was nothing to be gained by lying. "From al-Qahirah," he said.

"Cairo? A long way? Have you news?"

"None to speak of." _Unless you mean nearly dying_. "And you?"

Shindouk smiled. "We have come from Fez," he said. "From Al-Qarawiyyin University in Fez, to be precise. I bring copies of rare texts from the University to trade in Timbuktu."

"They trade such things there?"

"Oh, yes. Knowledge is valued above rubies."

"And you're Tuareg?" Malik had never heard that the Saharan tribes were renowned for scholarship.

Shindouk looked amused. "Oh, yes. At least _some_ of us can read."

Malik flushed. "No offence meant."

"None taken." Shindouk yawned. "I am many things. _Amenokal, griot, _trader, yes, even an upstanding university professor." He laughed. "On occasion."

"I see." Malik said. He thought he did. "You're a scholar?"

"I am a seeker after knowledge," Shindouk corrected. "Like yourself. And I have always been a curious man."

"You're curious? About what?"

The Tuareg shrugged. "So many things. For example, what was it like, nearly dying in the desert? You must excuse my curiosity. I hope that you are not offended, but most men who undergo the experience are no longer in a condition to answer my questions. Such knowledge is valuable. Did you see visions of water? An oasis, maybe? Palm trees, camels?""

Malik shrugged. "None of that," he said. "It was not unpleasant, after a while. I saw...things. Faces mostly. More than that I do not wish to tell. But there was no water. Until you came."

"Fascinating," Shindouk said. "Did you see Paradise?"

Malik shook his head. "I tried to say the _salat al-janazah_, the funeral prayer," he said, "but the words would not come. I saw things I've always seen. People. Faces. Only they were not there. "

Shindouk nodded. "Forgive me my curiosity," he said, but none of the books I've read speak of such things. There is no offence meant."

Malik smiled. "None taken," he said.

"Still, I forget my manners. Do you have no other questions of your own?"

"Timbuktu," said Malik. "You've visited before?"

"Many times. The city is a great trading hub, but it is nothing to what I hope it will become in the future. Everything a man will ever need passes through Timbuktu eventually, and a great deal that he does not. For is it not written 'Salt comes from the north, gold from the south, and silver from the country of the white men, but the word of God and the treasures of wisdom are only to be found in Timbuktu?"

The mention of treasure caught Malik's attention. Such colourful legends might indicate the location of an Eden fragment. "Is there really treasure there?"

Shindouk laughed. "Only in the tales. Some speak of fabulous riches hidden in the deep desert, treasures of kings long past. Palaces full of sliding sands where magical weapons wait to be discovered. But these are only tales. Like those of the Thousand Nights and a Night. Do you know them?"

Malik shook his head. The libraries of Masyaf did not cater for such fanciful tastes. "I study maps," he said, slightly embarrassed. "Though they did not help us here."

"I am not surprised," the old Tuareg said. "There are no maps of the sands. Perhaps they are unmappable. You must navigate using the stars and the sun. And many other things."

"What other things?"

Shindouk shook his head. "It is impossible to explain to someone who does not already know it. Suffice it to say that I or any _khabit_ –guide- here could tell you where we were headed. And each one would tell you why in a different manner; from the feel of the sun on their arm to the way the sand feels in the palm of their hands or the way the wind piles the sand up in ridges." He shrugged. "You should have stayed with your caravan."

"That, I think, we can agree on." Malik said.

Shindouk laughed. Marîd appeared like a ghost out of the dim twilight. He tapped Shindouk on his

shoulder and spoke swiftly in his ear.

"Trouble?" Malik asked.

Shindouk smiled. "No. A small disagreement only. Please excuse me. I must see to the unloading of the camels. You should both rest."

"Peace be with you," Malik said politely.

Shindouk shrugged and smiled apologetically. He turned, limping a little in the deep sand and headed off with Marîd at his back. A few moments later commands in the indecipherable Tuareg language split the air, punctuated by indignant camel bellows.

Altaïr hunkered down next to Malik. "I thought that he would never leave," he said.

Malik shook his head. "Neither did I," he said. "But why did you think it wise to name ourselves booksellers?"

"I could think of nothing else that was plausible," Altaïr said quietly. "I did not think it was wise to name ourselves caravan guards so soon after the raid. Shindouk does not belong to the tribe that attacked us, but he is Tuareg all the same. He himself said that he is a curious man. And he is not stupid. It was a good idea of yours to drop the weapons. Certainly they would have asked us questions if they had found we had their fellows' swords."

"Good idea? I was desperate."

Altaïr shrugged. "All the same, it seems to have worked to our advantage," he said. "Timbuktu is a centre of learning. You can pass as a bookseller. I shall pose as your assistant. Once we reach Timbuktu we can search out the orb and leave without attracting the attention of the Templars."

Malik nodded. "Hopefully they will think us dead," he said.

"_I _thought that we were dead. The merchant makes light of it, but you-I did not think that you still breathed when they pulled us from the sand. We underestimated this journey, Malik. Syria is a harsh land, but nowhere is as harsh as this. Still, this Shindouk seems to know his trade. His men speak of him with respect. No doubt he shall deliver us to Timbuktu, as he promises."

"And there," Malik said, "we shall find the Eden fragment for the Brotherhood."

"Indeed," Altaïr said. He glanced over his shoulder. "Hush. The Tuareg approaches." He nodded to Malik. "I shall seek out the others in his caravan. I'll see what I can learn from them. Maybe one of them will know something of our Templar friends. It is not long now to Timbuktu."

Author's Note:

If I have learned anything from researching this story, it is to be very grateful that I, being English, am unlikely ever to be lost in a desert. There's a book called _Skeletons of the Zahara_ about some sailors shipwrecked in modern Western Sahara in the 1800s. They ended up landing on the kind of coast you'd rather drown than be shipwrecked on. The books is uncompromisingly graphic in describing the results.


	4. Chapter 4

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Four._

They reached the city of Timbuktu five days later. Malik first caught sight of the city from a ridge looking down across the delta of the Niger. It was not easy to spot. Timbuktu was built from mud bricks gathered from the sandy plains that surrounded the city on all sides. Black nomad tents clustered at the outskirts of the city like a handful of scattered pepper. There was no difference in colour or texture between the buildings and the ground, only height. The river Niger gleamed in the setting sun some distance away from the city. Date palms fringed its banks. The minarets that jutted up from the city were scarcely taller than the trees.

"It's not as big as I expected," Altaïr said.

Malik shook his head. "Legendary places rarely are. We should not expect this-" he paused and replaced the insult he had been about to utter with "-this place," as Shindouk's servant boy Marîd bustled up behind them –"to compete with the likes of Cairo or Damascus."

"Still," Altaïr said.

Malik agreed. Despite its reputation, Timbuktu looked like nothing more than a dusty hamlet. The best that could be said of it was that it was considerably more welcoming than the surrounding desert. This was not hard.

"They say that a hundred years, it'll be a place worth journeying to," said Marîd.

"Then it's a pity we didn't come later," Altaïr retorted. Marîd looked at him wide-eyed, and Malik recalled that Marîd had probably never heard Altaïr voice his feelings so freely. Altaïr had kept a low profile since their rescue. He had observed much but spoken rarely; obscuring the missing finger on his left hand in the folds of his robe. A Templar mace had relieved Malik of the need to hide his hand. Still, he had done his best to portray them both as Cairenes, and had avoided mentioning Syria and Masyaf altogether.

"It is the largest city within two weeks of travel," Marîd said politely to Altaïr. "Everyone in the west passes through Timbuktu eventually. Maybe you will even find your caravan."

"Mm."

"You can buy whatever you want there." Marîd said. "Mostly books," he conceded. "And salt."

"Are there many book traders?" asked Malik.

"Dozens," replied the boy. "But none of them are as good as my master."

Malik nodded politely. He had already inspected Shindouk's wares and had found nothing of particular interest. He hoped he would have time to browse the shops for maps in between hunting for the Eden fragment.

He heard a camel snort behind him and looked around. Shindouk's camel bared yellow teeth at them from over the ridge. He called to Marîd as he rode past. "Hurry up. We are almost there. The camels will not water themselves. Why wait? Prayer is better than sleep, but arriving is better than all the travelling in the world!"

Marîd rolled his eyes, but he skidded down the ridge on his heels after Shindouk. Altaïr kicked his camel down the slope. Malik followed. They jolted down the slope, weaved through the fields of swaying date palms and made their way towards Timbuktu's north gate. The walls were as thick as a spear length and as tall as the palms outside. They were the only thing that impressed Malik about the whole place. He wondered why such massive walls were necessary. Surely nobody in this dry place had anything worth taking?

_Or maybe it is proof that we are right. That the Eden fragment rests within these walls._

Malik had to admit that it seemed unlikely. For all its reputation, the city was unimpressive. Mud was a poor match for marble and ceramic tiles. He was approached for alms a dozen times as they rode through the narrow streets. Jerusalem's beggars had little enough, but these people had nothing at all. A few scrawny monkeys leapt around on the rooftops and watched the travellers with beady eyes.

Shindouk halted the camels in a small square on the outskirts of the town. The other Tuareg in his group fussed over the camels, unloading merchandise, fetching water, scratching the dusty hides of the beasts with spiked brushes. Altaïr and Malik slid from their mounts, groomed them as best they could and then handed their reins to Marîd. The boy bowed. "My master wishes to speak with you," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "He is at the well."

Shindouk was watering his favourite camel, but he looked up and smiled as they approached. "Do you have anywhere to stay?"

Malik nodded.

"That is a shame," Shindouk said, and shrugged. "I would have offered you lodgings in my own house. It's a miserable place, but far more comfortable than a space in a rented _fondouk_ and it has considerably less vermin. Instead, you shall both do me the honour of joining me for a meal tonight once you have rested. The street vendors' food is not to be trusted, and the first meal after a journey of such length should be something to remember."

"You have already given us more than enough," said Altaïr.

Shindouk ignored him. "You will come to my house when the sun hits the ridge on the edge of town. Look for a gate decorated with metal camels by the north corner of the Sankore mosque."

Malik bowed. "Many thanks for all your hospitality," he said."We will attend."

"It was my pleasure. Thank not me, but God. "

"You have our gratitude," Malik said, "which is worth little enough, but you have our respect, which is worth more."

"Think nothing of it." Shindouk said graciously. "May your times be prosperous."

_God grant me patience_, Malik thought. He forced a smile. He was not ungrateful, but he badly needed solitude and a quiet room. These were not things he was likely to get trading pleasantries in a busy square. "May you arise in the morning in health."

"Go in peace," Shindouk said. "Return soon."

Farewells finally dispensed with, Malik and Altaïr walked thankfully away through the cool grey-sand streets. The monkeys followed them, and threw stones.

Malik had no particular plan in mind. He glanced at the signs of businesses as they passed. Many of them seemed to be salt-traders. The rest sold cheap food or expensive spices. He saw no booksellers, but if the trade was as important as Shindouk seemed to think it was, then they probably had their own quarter, or at least their own street.

"Do you trust him?" Altaïr said after a while.

"As much as any other man," Malik said. "But if Shindouk wanted us dead, he could have just left us where he found us in the Sands. Besides, attending his meal would be good manners. The man _did_ save both our lives."

Altaïr nodded. "As for manners, I do not care what anyone thinks of me-"

"Really?" Malik murmured, "I had not noticed."

Altaïr scowled but continued. "But Shindouk seems well-connected locally. He may be able to give us information about the location of the Eden fragment. And he _is_ a Tuareg. His company may stand us in good stead if we encounter his fellow nomads. Speaking, though, of encounters-"

"Yunus al-Qahirah." Malik said.

"I had the same thought. That greasy merchant owes us money."

"If he is here in Timbuktu," Malik said. "Do not forget that the last trace we saw of him was his camel's hind quarters departing over a dune."

"He is here," Altaïr said with certainty. "We will find him. And he may consider himself lucky if he escapes with only a hole in his purse. I did not expect the bastard to fight, but he did not have to leave us for dead in the desert."

"Let us not forget that coin would come in handy." Malik said practically. "Let us not waste time. We'll seek the merchant out before we find our lodgings."

The thought was easier than the deed, but the Assassins eventually ran al-Qahirah to earth well before sunset. They found him in a small caravanserai near the Bab Neel. He was arguing with another merchant, and did not notice them.

Altaïr started forwards and Malik stopped him with one hand on his arm. "Discretion, Altaïr," he warned.

Altaïr frowned. "I will deal with him."

"No. You will call too much attention to us. I will manage this."

Altaïr began to say something, and then stopped. ""Very well," he said in a voice that was far too calm."I will join you if the man is foolish enough to resist."

"Let us hope that he is not."

Altaïr smiled grimly. "Speak for yourself. I hope that he _is_.

Malik ignored him. He wrapped the unassuming manner of a small-time shopkeeper around him like a well-worn cloak and walked over to the arguing merchants. "_Sayyid_?"

Yunus al-Qahirah scowled. "What do you want?"

His companion, a gaunt merchant with a hawk's nose, looked up and fixed Malik with an identical glare. "Yes, what do you want? Leave us alone."

"Excuse me," Malik said with a bow, "but I have business with your friend. _Urgent_ business. It cannot wait. You would do best to return later."

The merchant raised his eyebrows. "Urgent business, is it? Well mine is urgent too, and it involves far larger amounts of money that _you_-" he frowned at Malik's scruffy travel-worn clothes"- will ever see in the whole of your miserable existence. And, furthermore, I-" He broke off as Malik sat down beside him on the cushions. "Excuse me?"

Malik leaned back on the cushions. "I don't think you understand," he said politely to al-Qahirah's companion. The dagger concealed in his right sleeve dropped down into his hand and he jabbed it through the merchant's robes-not deep, but deep enough to draw blood. "I think you need to return later. Is that clear?"

The merchant held very, very still. "Perfectly!" he squeaked, his voice rising an octave.

Malik flicked his wrist and the dagger vanished into his sleeve. He replaced his hand in his lap and smiled. The merchant rose, bowed shallowly to al-Qahirah and more deeply to Malik and vanished through the caravanserai gate.

Yunus al-Qahirah stared after his companion. "What in the world got into him?" he exclaimed, turning back to Malik, who had poured himself a cup of tea without being asked. "And what do you mean by this?"

Malik bowed without spilling a drop. "Nothing," he said. "You are well?"

Al-Qahirah refused to be drawn into formalities. "I am surprised you did not die in the desert," he said, looking very much like he wished Malik had. "Where is your companion?"

"Alive," Malik said, resisting the temptation to add _no thanks to you_. "Praise God."

"God is good," the merchant agreed in a tone of voice that said exactly the opposite. "What do you want?"

"Payment, honoured one," Malik said. He drank from his cup. "This is excellent tea."

Yunus al-Qahirah scowled. "You abandoned the caravan and left us to die," he said. "You deserve nothing."

Malik was surprised. He wondered if al-Qahirah had somehow missed the crowd of screaming men and camels that had descended upon them in the sands. "That was not how I remember it. And you are not dead." _Yet_.

The merchant patted his stomach. "It was a trial," he said in the face of all evidence.

"How terrible." Malik said. "Now, about payment?"

The merchant sighed. "How much?"

Malik named a figure that was approximately two-thirds the sum they had agreed upon in Cairo. Al-Qahirah's frown deepened. "You ask too much," he said. "You were not even there for half the trip. I remember that much." His eyes narrowed. "And you have a disrespectful tongue. I remember that also."

Malik sighed. "Pay us," he said, "and we shall be on our way."

Yunus al-Qahirah poured himself a glass of tea. "Why should I?"

Malik sighed.

Altaïr peeled himself from the doorframe and stepped forwards. He sank down on the cushions and leaned forwards to pick through Yunus al-Qahirah's dish. He selected two dates, took one for himself and tossed the second to Malik, who caught it one-handed.

Yunus spluttered, "Who do you think-"

There was a small _snick_, inaudible to all the caravanserai's patrons except Malik, Altaïr and al-Qahirah himself. Yunus al-Qahirah spluttered to a halt.

"I think," Altaïr said quietly, "that I am the man with a knife to your ribs."

"A knife? You would not dare-" the merchant exclaimed. His sentence came to an abrupt halt as Altaïr pressed the knife in a fraction further. "Wait!"

"Silence!" Altaïr hissed. "I should cut your throat. You abandoned us to the desert. Now, do you have money? We have no reason to let you live if you offer us nothing in return."

The merchant nodded. He reached into his sash, moving very carefully, and withdrew a small satin purse.

"Throw it to him," Altaïr jerked his head at Malik.

Yunus al-Qahirah tossed Malik the purse. Malik opened it and scrupulously removed the exact sum that he had asked for. He tied the strings of the purse with one hand and his teeth and handed it back to the merchant. "We take only the sum that we are owed," he said. "We are not thieves."

Yunus al-Qahirah looked likely to disagree, but the merchant's expression changed to abject terror as Altaïr's blade nicked him more deeply in the ribs. "Take it all!"

Altaïr glanced questioningly at Malik, who shook his head slightly. "Speak of this to nobody," he said.

The merchant shook his head. He was sweating heavily now. Malik heard a snicking sound as Altaïr sheathed his hidden blade. "Speak of this to nobody," he warned.

Al-Qahirah shook his head so vigorously that it seemed that it would fly off. "I swear in God's name-" he stuttered.

"You should not," Malik said as they got up. "If we hear you have spoken of this to anybody we shall come back and find you. And this time it will not be as quick as a blade in the ribs."

"Enough! I won't-I swear it! I swear!"

"I've no interest in your promises. You've proved yourself an oath-breaker already. If you are wise, you'll never hear of us again. If not," Altaïr shrugged. "We will be waiting."

They left the merchant quaking on the cushions behind them as they left the caravanserai. Malik ate the date. It was as good as the tea. "Was that wise?" he asked Altaïr as soon as they had turned the corner.

"Wise?"Altaïr said. "No. But it _was_ satisfying. If you had not called him a fat slimy salt merchant I would not have had to resort to such methods."

"I did not think you heard that." Malik said.

Altaïr's smile widened into a grin. "I did. But it was not _all_ true. Yunus al-Qahirah deals in spices, not salt."

Malik shrugged. "I was right enough," he said. "Now let us go, and find ourselves some lodgings. I need a bath. We should at least be presentable before we visit Shindouk tonight."

They found the _fondouk_ near the city walls. Once they had settled themselves into the bare, dusty rooms they bathed and presented themselves at Shindouk's house as soon as the setting sun cast its red light over the city's mud-brick walls. The Tuareg's home was a large rambling building, much larger than Malik had expected. It made Malik and Altaïr's rented rooms look shabby. It made the Bureau in Jerusalem look shabby. Ornate battlements crafted from mud gave Shindouk's house the air of a Franj castle. The silver camels nailed to the studded gates were brightly polished, the sand-covered alley out front neatly swept. The Sankore mosque loomed to the south.

Marîd met them at the gate. "This way," he said as the Assassins shuffled out of their sandals. They followed him through a tiled courtyard into the house proper.

"Did you find your lodgings?" Marîd asked politely.

Malik nodded. "Yes." He looked around, intrigued despite himself. The house contained no furniture that he could see. Instead, the floor was covered with layer upon layer of expensive carpets. Carved wooden grilles covered all the windows. Shelf upon shelf of books lined the walls. Malik caught a glimpse of lush potted plants in a courtyard outside. Books lay open on low tables. It was the house of someone, he realised, who felt more comfortable outdoors.

Marîd paused beside the next screen. He slid it open and they entered another courtyard thick with potted plants and vines. Monkeys tumbled and quarrelled in the branches of the trees. A fountain bubbled in the centre of the room. The fountain was tiny: nearly as small as the one in the garden of the Jerusalem Bureau, but in such a dry land it spoke of real wealth. "Here." Marîd raised his voice. "_Sayyid_, your guests."

Shindouk rose from a cushion in the corner of the room. His face wrinkled in a smile. "Welcome, my friends!"

Malik tensed, expecting another round of the customary formalities, but the introduction was mercifully brief. Malik had been expecting more guests, but there was only Shindouk and another man who he introduced as "Halis, my brother." The two men looked nothing alike and Malik was unsure if the title was honorary or whether there was an actual family connection. They greeted the man with all the rituals suitable for a family member anyway.

They sat down on the cushions and Marîd brought food. He set dish after dish on a low table, and they settled down to eat.

The food was good. Malik said as much, first with his mouth full and then again, slower and more intelligibly.

Shindouk smiled. "It is not much," he said, "but after a long journey anything is welcome." He gestured at the house surrounding them. "What do you think of my library?"

Halis grinned. "Humour him," he said. "He is moon-touched. There is no other word for it. They have fewer books at al- Qarawiyyin than my brother does here."

"Most impressive," Malik said.

Halis snorted. "You can talk books together," he said. "I, however, plan to eat some more of this most excellent food."

"Indeed," Altaïr said.

"It is not much," Shindouk said self-depreciatingly. "Try the sheep's liver. It is excellent."

"I must confess," Halis said, "I have already tried it. But I have no objection to trying it again while you bore this man with your books."

"Talk of books is never boring," Malik said politely.

Shindouk's eyes gleamed. "What do you think of, for example, al-Ghazali's _Incoherence of the Philosophers_?"

Malik considered the text for a moment. "Flawed," he said, as the talk turned pleasantly to literary matters. Altaïr, meanwhile, grilled Halis at length on the legends of Timbuktu. Malik caught his eye a few times during the conversation, but Altaïr just shook his head. Halis had not mentioned the Eden fragment.

Malik sighed. Timbuktu was not as large as Cairo, but it was still a big place. The orb could be hidden anywhere.

They did not rise to leave until the night-time prayer echoed from the minaret of the Sankore. Halis had left some hours before. Marîd bustled in and out of the courtyard, cleaning the plates and beating carpets. A monkey climbed down from the vines and the boy fed it dates.

"It has been a good night," Malik said as Shindouk yawned.

Altaïr bowed. "Once again we owe you hospitality," he said, with more finesse than Malik had previously given him credit for.

Shindouk waved one hand. "I am sure that you will return the favour when next I visit Cairo," he said. "What is one good meal between friends? You have repaid me amply. We are a long way from Fez here and what this city gains in charm it lacks in conversation. I wonder if, in return, you could answer one final question."

Malik nodded. "Of course," he said.

Shindouk smiled. "I am so glad," he said eagerly. "Are you Hashashin?"

Author's Note:

Timbuktu's Golden Age didn't really begin to kick off until a hundred years or so after this story. Pity really. Al-Qarawiyyin University in Fez is the oldest academic university in the world. Founded by a woman called Fatima al-Fihri in 847, al-Qarawiyyin began as a madrasa, or religious school. The Sankore mosque and madrasa in Timbuktu is a little older, founded in 988, and would have been the only one of the three famous mosques in Timbuktu to exist at the time of the story. The other two are Djingareiber (1327) and Sidi Yahya (1400).

There will be a test at the end of this story. Nah, only kidding :D


	5. Chapter 5

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Five._

_We have to kill him,_ Malik thought.  
Altaïr did not even have to think. He grabbed the skinny Tuareg by the collar of his robe and threw him up against the wall with a knife to his throat.

"Wait!" Malik said hurriedly.  
Altaïr glared at Malik from underneath his hood. "Why_?"_

Malik ignored his comrade. He turned to Shindouk, who had said nothing since his surprising pronouncement. "How did you know?" he said. The house was dark and quiet around them. Halis had long since left. Marîd had vanished into the kitchens. They would not be disturbed until Shindouk's blood soaked the carpets at his feet.  
"I did not." Shindouk's eyes darted from Malik's face to Altaïr's. "Until now, that is."  
"You are always too quick to draw your blade," Malik snapped.  
"Better than to be too slow," Altair retorted.

Shindouk said nothing.

Altaïr sighed. He slackened his grip a fraction so that the old man might speak, and Malik repeated his question. "How did you know?"  
"Oh, many reasons," Shindouk's voice was controlled and only slightly faster than it should have been. "We found you in the desert with nothing. This is not so unusual, but none of the tribes have found any discarded trade goods, either. So you are not merchants as you claim." He swallowed. "Moreover, in the marketplace the marketplace I heard a tale of a pair of caravan guards lost in a battle with a group of Tuareg of the Kel Amenar tribe. By great good fortune, one of my traders is of the Kel Amenar. I asked him what happened to the men who went on that raid and he told me none of them returned."  
"So how did you know?" Malik asked impatiently.  
Shindouk looked surprised. "Am I not telling you?"  
"Not fast enough." Altaïr growled.  
"The Kel Amenar are great fighters," Shindouk explained. "Two men alone could not prevail against so many swords unless they were truly exceptional warriors. I have read that the Hashashin of Syria cut off the middle finger of their left hand as part of their initiation. And as _you_-" here he looked up at Altaïr-"have no middle finger and your comrade has no left hand at all, the conclusion was obvious."  
Malik cursed Altair under his breath. "You are a wise man," he said. "It would have been wiser not to mention it."  
"Agreed," Shindouk said. He choked slightly as Altaïr twisted his collar. "I shall bear that in mind. So you _are_ Hashashin. Fascinating. You do not look it!"  
"Well, yes." Malik said patiently. "That is the idea."  
"Even so!" Shindouk looked triumphant. "I guessed right after all."  
"If you are lucky, you may live to regret it," Altaïr said dangerously.  
Shindouk looked from one man to the other. The toes of his slippers scrabbled on the slick tiles as he fought to gain a more comfortable position. He made no move against Altaïr. "Why are you here?" he asked at last.

The Assassins exchanged glances. Malik knew that if Altaïr had really been intending to kill the bookseller, he would have done it in the first instant, and nothing would have stayed his hand. "We are searching for something," he said.

"Then I may be able to assist you," Shindouk said. He spoke quietly. Malik did not still entirely trust him-many men would say anything once Altaïr's knife was at their throats- but he motioned to Altaïr and Altaïr lowered his arm with a snarl.  
Shindouk swayed as he hit the ground. He righted himself and brushed mud dust from the sleeves of his robe. "My thanks," he said to Altaïr. "I did not think that you would kill me."  
"I might still change my mind," Altaïr said.  
"Then it is God's will," Shindouk said placidly. "You seem to be good men. And I _did_ save your lives." "Why?" Malik asked.

Shindouk rubbed his throat as if he could not believe it was still intact. "Why what?"

"Why did you save us?"

Shindouk shrugged. "Maybe one day I will be lost in the desert," he said, "and it is you who will rescue _me_. The Good Book says that if you save the life of one, it is as if you had saved the lives of all mankind."

"I do not remember that part," said Altaïr"

Shindouk smiled. He crossed to the cushions and sat down, pausing only to wash his face and his hands in the water cascading from the fountain." More tea?"

"I think not," Altaïr said, but he sat down anyway.

Malik took his place beside him. "These Kel Amenar," he said to Shindouk. "What quarrel had they with us?"  
"No quarrel," Shindouk replied. "The Kel Amenar will kill anyone they are paid to kill, although I admit that an attack in daylight is not their style. They must have thought you sufficiently outnumbered to be an easy target."  
"They were wrong," Altaïr said.

"So I see. And do not worry. I am not of that tribe."

"We were not worried," Malik said. "But do you know who paid these men?"  
"You could ask them," Shindouk said as he poured another cup of tea, "but I do not think they would listen. If a member of the tribe is killed, then his surviving male relatives are obliged to kill the murderer. Does anybody know that you are here?"  
"Yunus al-Qahirah," Malik said reluctantly.  
"The merchant? Then you might have more to worry about than you think. That man would sell his grandmother for coin."  
"We will go and speak with them," said Altaïr. He gave '_speak_' an inflection that made it clear speaking was the very least of what he would do.  
Shindouk poured himself another cup of mint tea. "I would advise against killing them. You will soon have the whole of the Tuareg clans after your blood."  
"We are not afraid of them," said Altaïr.  
"There are a _lot_ of them."  
Malik thought of the long journey back across the desert, and felt uneasy. "Where do we find these Kel Amenar?  
"At this time of year, some of them will camp on the dunes outside the city," said Shindouk. "Or maybe a little further. But it would be wise not to confront them directly. I know a man who had travelled with me many times. He is of the Kel Ahaggar, cousins to the Kel Amenar. I will introduce you."  
"Why?" Malik said.

Shindouk shrugged. "You seem like good men. And I have saved your life. Some of my people hold that once you have saved a man's life you are responsible for him. I would not wish you to get cut down by the Kel Amenar, and I would wish even less for more of them to die in the attempt. And I have read many tales of the Hashashin. I am curious to find out if what I have read is true."

Malik sighed. "For a start," he said, "you got the name wrong." He looked at Altaïr who was busily cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his curved dagger and studiously ignoring their conversation. "We are not hashish-users. We are Assassins. The work of an Assassin requires patience and meticulous preparation. These qualities are not usually associated with users of hashish."

Shindouk frowned. "I see," he said."What of the other legends?"  
"Have you heard of the Templars?" Malik asked.

Shindouk frowned. "The knights of the Franj? I have heard of _them._"

"That is not what we mean," said Malik. "The ones we speak of are cunning. They wear a white tunic with a red cross in private, but may dress however they please. They _are_ Franj, that is true, but they are also Jews and Muslims of the One True Faith. Even women. And they lie."  
Shindouk looked puzzled. "Then anyone could be a Templar. _I_ could be a Templar!"

Malik rested his hand on his forehead and thought that Shindouk could be terribly obtuse for such a wise man. "You are not," he said as Altaïr's eyes narrowed.  
Shindouk cocked his head. "How do you know?"  
Malik poured himself a cup of tea anyway. "Because you haven't tried to kill us."

"They have tried to kill you?"  
"They have tried before," said Malik.  
Altaïr's smile was as sharp as a knife. "They have _failed_ before," he said.

"Do not worry," Shindouk said. "There are no Templars here. Not in Timbuktu."

_May the Father of Understanding guide me_, Marîd thought.

He crouched with his back to the wall under one of the grilled windows that looked out onto the courtyard from the kitchen. Clutching the cross that hung at his throat, he began to pray.

_Assassins_.

He should have known. He could not have imagined how he should have known, but he knew that he should have known nonetheless.

The men he had met in Fez, the men with dark eyes and white tabards marked with red, would have known. They would have killed the Assassins where they lay helpless in the desert.

Marîd wished bitterly that he could undo his mistake. The edges of the metal cross bit painfully into his hand.

The men in Fez had talked of a new world. A world of peace, without war or fear or pain. They had given Marîd money and told him that he now served a far nobler cause than the University of al-Qarawiyyan. They had told Marîd that he served peace.

They had told him that the Assassins were evil men who sought to undo the Templars' work. It was Marîd's duty to thwart them at every turn.

He tucked the middle finger of his left hand into his palm and looked down at the stump. The mark of their initiation, Shindouk had called it. Marîd would remember what it meant. He would be able to recognize an Assassin the next time he saw one.

_A better world_, he thought, _where all might live as equals_.

The thought gave him the courage to rise unsteadily to his feet. He listening in the corridor outside when the one they called Altaïr slammed his master to the wall and held him with a knife to his throat. Shock had kept Marîd immobile as he listened to each detail of Shindouk's speech. Once he knew who and more importantly, _what_ his master's guests were the shock had given way to fear.

They would kill him if they caught him, he knew.

But Marîd was a Templar.

He knew his duty.

He swallowed and walked, very carefully, towards the kitchens.

In the courtyard, the tea was long since cold. The monkeys chattered sleepily among the branches high above while Shindouk talked with Malik and Altaïr.

The Tuareg was in the process of satisfying his curiosity. Malik felt it was the least they could do. He found some of the information that the old man had picked up from his book curious, to say the least.

"So you were sent by your master from the mountain?" Shindouk asked eagerly.

Malik looked sidelong at Altaïr, who appeared not to be listening. "In a manner of speaking."

Shindouk made a small note on a rolled strip of hide that he had pulled from his belt. "How exciting!" he said. "I have read about the Assassins for years!"

Malik sighed. "Not everything you read is true," he pointed out.

Shindouk made another note. "The garden?"

"Garden?"

"There are tales that your master tempts you with a wondrous garden. Filled with fountains of running water, and wine, and," here Shindouk's hands sketched an hourglass shape in the air."Young woman...of every description."

"Franj lies," Malik said briefly. "Not ours." He shared a private glance with Altaïr, but neither of them elaborated.

"The philosopher Al-Ghazali," Shindouk said, "writes that you share all your wives in common."

Malik carefully schooled his features to a blank. "Also not true."

"Tread carefully, old man," said Altaïr without looking up.

Shindouk's scrap of hide was nearly full. "I'm guessing that the stories about Hash-" here he corrected himself-"_Assassins_-eating babies are also not correct?"

Malik fought to keep a straight face."Never a whole one."

"You do not kill innocents, then?"

Malik considered the question. "We try not to," he said at last.  
"The definition of the word 'innocent' is subject to change," Altaïr said. "We are a secretive order, and we like to keep it that way."  
The old Tuareg frowned. "So I was in no danger?"  
" I would not put it quite like that," said Altaïr.

"All we seek is peace," Malik said.

"You have a strange way of going about it," Shindouk said. He shook his head. "Myself, I think peace is unlikely. There will always be war in the world. But did a famous philosopher not say 'Therefore, he who desires peace, let him prepare for war?'2 He shook his head. "You certainly seem well prepared."

There was a noise in the corridor. Shindouk paused in his speech as Marîd entered the courtyard. The servant boy carried a small lantern in his hand. He put it on the table and they all blinked in the bright pool of light it cast.

"I've brought you some refreshments, Master." Marîd said to Shindouk. He lowered a large dish of dates to the table and bowed. His forehead nearly touched the flat surface of the table. The lantern concealed his face in shadows.

Shindouk beamed. "Well done, Marîd," he said affectionately.

Marîd rose and touched his heart. "Guests should be served generously and given their just reward," he said. "Please, eat."

Malik leant forwards and took a date. A shrill scream issued from the potted trees above him and he looked up. Roused by the lantern, the monkeys nesting in the branches began to quarrel. Seeing the food, one of them leapt down onto the table, snatched a date and disappeared up into the tree. Marîd watched it go with ill-concealed consternation.

Shindouk laughed at the expression on his servant's face. "Don't be so dismayed," he said. "Sit, eat with us."

Marîd shook his head. "There is still work to be done," he mumbled, watching as Altaïr picked a date from the dish and flicked it up in the air. A high-pitched scream echoed overhead.

Shindouk laughed. "Monkeys," he said.

Malik took a bite of his date. It tasted bitter, as if it was rotten, but he forced it down for politeness's sake.

A leaf drifted downwards from the trees. It spun in the currents of air and landed gently on the low table. It was followed by the twisted corpse of a small monkey. Half a date was still clutched tightly in its clenched fingers.

There was a frozen second of shock.

_Not tainted_, Malik realised, _but poisoned. _He spat the fruit out onto the floor. His lips felt numb. He spat a few more times to ease the taste in his mouth.

Altaïr leapt over the table in a clatter of spilled dishes and knocked Marîd to the ground. "Your servant's a poisoner," he growled to Shindouk, gripping Marîd's collar tightly in one hand. His dagger touched Marîd's throat and drew blood.

Malik knelt down beside the prone boy. His gaze was attracted by a glint of metal. He reached into the boy's shirt. Marîd cursed and tossed his head and twisted on the ground. Malik snapped the thong that pierced the cross and held it up to the light.

"Not only a poisoner," he said, "but a Templar, too."

Author's Note:

Marîd's name is in homage to Marîd Audran, the protagonist of George Alec Effinger's wonderful series of Arabic cyberpunk noir novels, _When Gravity Fails_.

Pretty much all of the Assassin legends that Shindouk mentions are true, hence the garden in the game. The 'famous philosopher' Shindouk quotes is the Roman general Vegetius.

The Arab blood feud business is as true to life as I can make it. The monkeys are shamelessly stolen from Raiders of the Lost Ark.


	6. Chapter 6

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Six._

Marîd froze. His body slackened; then, as if possessed, he jerked into life. His hands fumbled for the cross. Altaïr pressed the knife to his throat and he slumped back.

Shindouk looked disbelievingly at the dead monkey and then back at the boy. "You-you _dare_ attack guests in my own home?"

Marîd began to answer, but he did not get far before Shindouk interrupted him again. "I don't care what you think you are!" He stepped forwards and kicked the boy accurately and hard in the ribs. He paid no attention to Altaïr's knife and punctuated punctuating each blow with a few words, "You will _not_-", -_thud-_, "murder _guests_," –_thud-_, "in my own home!"

Marîd yelped and rolled away. He seemed more bothered by Shindouk's reprimand than Altaïr's knife. Malik thought that this only further illustrated the boy's poor choice of priorities.

"What did they pay you?" Shindouk continued his tirade. "Gold? Silver? We are Tuareg; we do not need such things! Speak! Tell me, what did you sell your honour for?" He aimed another kick at the boy's ribs.

Marîd slithered away and lowered his arms. "Peace," he said simply.

"Then you are a fool!" Shindouk snapped. He snatched Marîd's cross from Malik's hand and hurled it away. Have you learned nothing from my teachings?" he shouted as the pendant rolled across the carpet and vanished beneath a bookcase. "There is always war somewhere in the world!"

"War will be a memory once the Templars rule!" Marîd protested. "Only the Templars know the truth!"

"The Templars speak only of lies," Malik said quietly. He spat in a pot plant and felt sensation return to his mouth.

Altaïr scowled and bent over Marîd, tensing his grip on the dagger as the boy tried to retreat. "Did you hire those Tuareg? Answer quickly."

Marîd looked wildly round for Shindouk as if he hoped the old man would protect him. His hopes were in vain. Shindouk only shrugged. "It is a simple question," he said to the boy. "Answer it."

Marîd swallowed. He glanced at Altaïr and then at Shindouk before he replied. "Yes."

"Are there other Templars here?" Altaïr asked.

The boy shook his head.

Malik snorted. "Then you're a fool," he said to Marîd, "for attempting such a thing alone. The Templars have tried to kill us before. All failed, and paid the price."

Marîd paled. "They told me it would not be easy. Yet they trusted me. I was unworthy-"

"You were expendable." Malik snapped. "How did they contact you? Tell us, and we may yet spare your life."  
"My eyes were opened to the truth in Fez," Marîd said defiantly. His gaze went past Altaïr, past them all, to the minaret of the Sankore mosque that cast a dark shadow over the small courtyard. My only regret is that I failed in my mission." He raised his chin. "I am prepared to die for the faith." He sounded as if he were reciting a lesson he had learned, but did not believe."I'm not afraid to die."

"You should be." Altaïr said. He looked up at Shindouk. "Did you know of this?"

"Do I look as if I did?" said the old Tuareg bitterly. "I thought Marîd had more sense." He sighed. "I was wrong. It is your right to take his life if you wish, but I beg for mercy. Surely I must have failed the boy. If you must have blood, take mine."

A hush fell over the star-studded courtyard. The silence was broken by Marîd's ragged protest. "No!" he shouted.

"No?"Altaïr asked. His hand did not move on the hilt of his knife.

Malik shrugged. "If the boy is old enough to kill he is old enough to face the consequences," he said.

Marîd looked from face to face. If he hoped for mercy, he found none. He whispered a prayer and closed his eyes.

Altaïr did not move. "A wise man told me once," he said, as easily as if they were reminiscing over a cup of tea rather than crouching tense with bared knives, "that some do ill out of ignorance or fear, and that these men can be saved. Other men are poisoned, twisted beyond hope of repair, and these men must be destroyed. I think myself that you are not beyond saving. Let the Templars see that we are not without mercy. It is a lesson they would do well to learn."

Malik would have cut the boy's throat without hesitation, but he could not disagree. "Let him live, then," he said. "We shall see what sort he is soon enough."

Marîd frowned. A complicated mix of emotions, including but not limited to relief, anger, guilt and disbelief, chased their way across his thin face. "But-but I tried to kill you!"

"We had noticed," Malik said dryly.

"If he tries again rest assured that I will kill _him_." Shindouk said. He bowed deeply to Malik and even more deeply to Altaïr. "My most humble thanks."

Marîd rubbed his throat sullenly as Altaïr lowered the knife. "How'd you know you can trust me?" he mumbled.

"Because you have no other choice," Malik said.

"I don't understand."

Shindouk leant forwards and slapped the boy around his head. "Think!" he ordered. "If you paid for the Tuareg, then those Kel Amenar will be after all of us now."

Marîd frowned. Clearly he had not expected to be the target of Tuareg vengeance. "All?"

"Yes, _all_." Shindouk gestured to Malik and Altaïr. "These men will die to pay the tribes' blood debt. You'll die because you lied to them and sent their warriors across the desert unprepared."

Marîd looked horrified."I did not mean-"

"Nevertheless, you did," Shindouk said grimly. "You'll have a hard time poisoning all of _them_. We might have passed this off as a misunderstanding earlier, but not now." He fumbled in his robe for a second and drew out a heavy purse which, opened, spilled gold coins onto the tiles. "I'll make arrangements. We'll leave as soon as possible."

"But the books-" Marîd protested while the Assassins exchanged glances.

"Damn the books! We'll all die if we stay here!" Shindouk's thin cheeks were flushed. "The Kel Amenar have had _days_ to hunt you down. They'll expect us to leave, of course, but I can guide us halfway to Sijilmasa in the north. Once there we'll be out of Kel Amenar territory." He turned to Altaïr and Malik."You'll travel with us? Once we reach Fez, you can take ship from Sale and return easily to Cairo."

_A ship_, Malik thought with dismay. His stomach lurched.

Altaïr looked even less impressed with Shindouk's plan. "We have business here in Timbuktu," he said.

Shindouk shook his head. "You should forget it. The Kel Amenar will attack once they discover you are here. You would not last long, even with your skills."

"Many apologies," Malik said politely, but ours is not the sort of business that can be delayed."

Shindouk began to laugh. His laughter died out as soon as he realized that the Assassins were serious, "What do you need? Come, do not be stubborn. You need goods, and I need guards. I owe you a debt. Let me buy what you need."

"I wish it was that simple."Malik said regretfully. He paused for a moment before continuing. "Have you seen an orb?"

"An orb?" asked the Tuareg sceptically.

"It would be about _this_ large," Altaïr sketched a globe the size of an orange in his hands. "Metal. Deeply grooved."

Shindouk's brow furrowed. "Expensive?"

"Worthless," Malik said quickly. Priceless would have been a far better description of the third apple, but he did not like to admit it. Shindouk was a trader, after all, and he still did not trust the boy. "It is of value to none but us."

"You're sure that it's here?" asked Shindouk. He looked sceptical. Marîd's expression showed nothing more than sulky incomprehension as Shindouk pulled the boy to sit down beside him on the mats.

"Certain," Altaïr said.

Shindouk slid a hand under his veil and rubbed his forehead. "I have never heard of such a thing. If the globe is not for purchase, then maybe we can track it down together. Tell me of this orb and of its habits. This need not be so difficult."

Malik thought of the Eden fragments they had found hidden in the temple of Solomon, in the Giza pyramid. "The others have been found at holy sites," he said slowly. "Have you anything like that here?"

"Only one." Shindouk's face had been lined with tension; now it split into a broad grin. "You need only to stand on my doorstep and look east. It is not hard to find."

Altaïr steepled his fingers in his lap and leant forwards. "The Sankore?"

Shindouk nodded.

"You have seen such a thing?" Malik asked eagerly. He had anticipated days of searching, not hours. "A globe, as we describe?"

Shindouk shook his head. "No. But it may be hidden."

"It's likely," Malik agreed. "We'll search."

Shindouk scooped his gold back into his purse, counting the coins one by one. A fortune in cash flicked through the old man's wiry fingers. "Will you travel with us once you find this orb? You might as well throw in your lot with ours. Once the Kel Amenar have learned that both their targets are together, they will assume that they have been misled and act accordingly. We are not fighters, and you are."

"We do not _need _their protection," Marîd mumbled, almost too quietly to be heard.

Shindouk slapped the boy. "It will take me half a day to provision a caravan. That is not enough time, but it cannot be helped. We must leave. If you find the orb in time, journey with me. If we survive, I will reward you."

Altaïr shook his head. "No need," he said.

Malik groaned at his companion's disregard for coin. "If we find the globe, we'll come all the same," he said. After his last experience, he did not relish the thought of journeying alone into the deep desert. Travelling with Shindouk, even _with_ his treacherous servant in tow, seemed slightly more appealing than the alternative.

Shindouk grinned. "Good," he said, and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Marîd will help you search. He knows the Sankore well."

Malik frowned. He opened his mouth to point out how much of a bad idea that was and closed it again as Altaïr said "We'd be glad to have him."

"We would _not._" Malik hissed.

His fellow Assassin took no notice. "We'll all leave now, then, while it's quiet. You said half a day to prepare. Where shall we meet?"

"The square, at midday," Shindouk said. He looked up at the clear sky, judging the weather. "The day will be so hot than everyone will be asleep. It's not enough time to prepare properly, and it'll cost me gold, but it will have to do. "

"It's my fault," Marîd said.

Shindouk barely spared him a glance. "Gold is the very least of what you have cost me, boy. Go with them."

"But-" Marîd protested. Shindouk cut the boy's ill-timed complaint off with a wave of his hand. "My thanks. Meet me at noon. Marîd, _go_."

The boy scowled, but he obeyed. He led them out of the courtyard and through the rambling, dark house with the ease of long practice, looking the whole time even less enthusiastic about the idea than Malik felt. Taking a Templar to find an Eden fragment-even a very young and ill-trained one, was the worst sort of foolishness in his opinion. He kept his opinions to himself as they slipped out into the street.

Timbuktu was quiet. A dog barked far away over the rooftops and was followed by a chorus of sleepy growling. The grey sand streets were dappled with the silhouettes of the bats that flitted between the high adobe walls. In the moonlight, the minaret of the Sankore cast a darker shadow over the flat-roofed buildings that surrounded it. Malik noticed that a cone-shaped structure topped its tower instead of the crescent traditional in the civilised East.  
He kept an eye out for vengeful Tuareg as they walked but saw nobody at all.

The Sankore was likewise deserted by the time that they arrived. The building had resembled a child's mud castle from a distance. Malik was surprised to see that it was both larger and more impressive than he had thought. Beams of wood jutted from the walls and the minaret, placed as closely as the arrow-shafts that decorated the battlements of a Crusader castle after a siege.

Altaïr looked speculatively at the tower. "Easy to climb," said.  
"That's what it's for," Marîd told them. If he had regained a trace of his old self-importance, he lost it as soon as he saw Altaïr glare. "Scaffolding," he said hurriedly. "For repairs."  
Malik examined the building with interest. "They repair it?"

If it was true that the mosque bristled with struts like a porcupine, then it was also evident that heaps of sand lay against its walls where the bricks had begun to crumble. The walls were banked up at the side with buttresses of mud bricks. The buttresses were quite possibly the only things keeping the structure from collapsing.

Altaïr tapped Marîd's shoulder. "Go and see if it is open."

Marîd nodded and ran off. Malik leaned against the wall and watched the boy sceptically.  
"You think I am wrong," Altaïr said as soon as Marîd was out of sight.

Malik shook his head. "No. Do you recall Shindouk's motto? The word of God is found within a mosque, and the treasure of wisdom is the orb. The Eden fragment is hidden in plain sight. That's the second tenet of the Creed, after all."

"I was talking about the boy," Altaïr said."You think I was wrong to spare him."

"I did not say that."

"You thought it."

Malik did not deny it. "I think that you pick your moments to remember Al Mualim's teachings," he said. "I have not decided if your decision was worth the risk. Al Mualim would have killed him without hesitation and you know it."  
"Then it's a good job that I am not Al Mualim," Altaïr said "Better to test the boy's loyalty in the town than in the desert."

"You trust him?"

"I trust the Eagle's vision. Marîd no longer shows crimson." He shrugged. "But this has changed. It may again."

"Hopefully before his knife finds our backs," Malik pointed out acerbically.

Altaïr ignored Malik's sarcasm. He peered up at the Sankore's tall tower and measured the gaps between the handholds speculatively. Malik leant back against the wall and watched a comet cross the sky. He had to admit that he was in an unusually bad mood. Searching for mystical treasures was not his cup of tea. He had been perfectly happy with the idea of journeying across the desert to find the Eden fragment. He was less happy with the visions that the orbs contained.

The Giza Eden fragment had given Malik a vision of a dead man with his own face lying in a room with blood-daubed walls. It was the sort of image he had tried unsuccessfully to forget.

_Especially_, he thought, _in the early hours, when the sickle moon is high in the sky and the foxes howl in the hills outside Jerusalem. __  
_They waited there outside the Sankore in silence until Marîd loped up. "It's open."

Malik and Altaïr followed the boy into the mosque, where they shed their shoes like humble pilgrims. Jerusalem's al-Aqsa mosque was carpeted with rich silks and illuminated by hundreds of hand-blown glass lanterns. Its seven-arched roof was supported by pillars made from pure white marble. The pulpit was carved from ivory and rare scented wood.

The Sankore, despite its reputation, was no comparison. The mosque's floor was made of packed earth. It was illuminated only by the moonlight which streamed in through high narrow windows. The hall was not high or arched enough to need pillars to support it. The pulpit was a plain notch carved into the wall.

There was nobody else there. Either the imam had the utmost faith in the devoutness of his congregation or there was simply nothing in the mosque to steal.  
Malik suspected the latter. "This will be a fast search," he said.  
They closed the door behind them, wedging it shut with a bar kept for the purpose. The hall was perfectly, austerely empty. There was not even a chest where the Eden fragment might be hidden. Nevertheless, both Assassins remembered the visions that had veiled the orb at Giza. They walked carefully around the echoing room. Malik reached out and touched a wall, but he felt nothing but crumbling mud warm against his hand. He looked questioningly over at Altaïr, who shook his head.  
"It could be built into the walls," said Malik.  
"It will be accessible."  
Malik looked around at the empty room. "I hope you're right."  
"Not always." Altaïr retorted. He smiled briefly, but his smile was soon replaced by a frown of concern.  
"Is it hidden?" Malik asked him.  
Altaïr shook his head. "I can't see it."

The Assassins ignored retraced their steps, senses alert for the faintest alien scent or sensation. The orb hidden in the Pyramid of Giza had sent unsettling images, but there was nothing here.

_Maybe_, Malik thought, _there is nothing here at all._  
It looked like Altaïr had had the same thought. "Are there any other buildings of importance in Timbuktu?" he asked Marîd.

The boy shook his head doubtfully. "No, but the madrassah is next door," he offered.

A small door in the mosque's back wall led to the school behind it and eliminated any hopes Malik had of an easy search. The madrassah, like the mosque itself, was a single room. There was a chest against one wall. Altaïr broke the lock with one twist of his hidden blade and Malik, aware as he did so that what they were doing was the worst sort of blasphemy but not caring enough to let it stop him, looked in. He might as well not have bothered. The chest was full to the brim with the wax slates that the madrassah's students' used for copying the Qur'an. There was nothing else.

The Assassins headed back into the main hall to consider their options.  
"We were wrong?" Malik asked.

Altaïr shook his head. "No," he said. "This is a holy place."

Malik could not dispute that. Despite the mosque's poverty there was a serene air permeating its walls. "It's here?"

"It's here," Altaïr confirmed.

"Where?"  
Altaïr shook his head in frustration. "In truth," he said, "I do not know."

Malik sighed. "That narrows it down." He gazed hopelessly up at the mosque's spider-webbed rafters, each one thick as his arm, and found Altaïr following his gaze. The Assassins looked at each other in sudden, mutual understanding.  
Altaïr spun around to face Marîd. "How do we gain the roof?"

The boy looked rather surprised at this rapid change of pace."You think it's up there?"

Malik fought against a tide of unaccustomed optimism. "It's possible," he said, trying and failing to sound less enthusiastic than he felt.  
"It's that," Altaïr said, "or we break this whole mosque around us down with our hands."  
"Blasphemy!" Marîd muttered.  
Malik could not resist the temptation to taunt him."So says the Templar."  
"You mock me!" said the boy with more heat than was wise.  
"No more than you deserve," Malik retorted. He gestured to the shallow gash still visible on Marîd's throat. "Sharp words are better than knives."  
Altaïr ignored them both.

The boy sulked as they left the mosque and walked into the square outside. The first rosy tints of dawn spread over the desert horizon. Malik realised that they did not have much of the night left. He hoped that Altaïr was right. The city would wake very soon. The smoke from breakfast fires would taint the air and their foes would come looking. They had little time. There was only one place in the mosque that they had not searched, and that was on the roof.

Malik looked up at the minaret. The clay walls were studded with beams; an easy climb. Malik could have climbed the tower easily. The boy beside him could have done it.  
Altaïr said nothing. He merely wrapped his hands and his feet around the nearest beam and began to climb without fanfare. Malik watched him go from the dubious shelter of one of the mosque's buttresses. The boy tugged his scarf across his face and hunkered down beside Malik.

"The Templars told me you were evil men," he said when Altaïr was half way up the wall.  
Malik yawned. "They would tell you nothing else. We have long been enemies."  
"Do you call _them_ evil men?"  
"Misguided, mostly," Malik said, remembering Al Mualim. "Some, yes."  
"Did Templars take your arm?"

"No," Malik said curtly, hoping to forestall any more questions. It didn't work. Marîd just gestured to Malik's missing left arm. "You cannot climb?"  
The assumption was an obvious and common one, but it still stung. "I can climb. I stay here to guard you."

Marîd looked at Malik as if he was judging how fast Malik would be in a chase or a battle. Malik could have told him not to bother. After a while the boy seemed to change his mind. He relaxed. Malik hoped that the boy had run out of questions, but he was wrong. Marîd had found his tongue again by the time Altaïr had vanished over the parapet of the Sankore tower. "What do you seek?"

"I am not telling you that," Malik said. "I am not as trusting as Altaïr." _And I genuinely never thought I would say that_.

"I'd be more useful if I knew,"  
"You would be more useful dead, but I do not draw my knife."  
Marîd looked chastened. Malik wished he could blame the boy's errors on foolish youth. He knew better, despite Altaïr's eagle vision. He'd been foolish and young once and he'd still been a killer.

Malik looked up at the minaret. There was no sound and no sign of Altaïr.  
"You despise me for poisoning you," Marîd said after a while

Malik wished the boy would shut up. There was no point in nagging like a child at a wound. He'd do much better by simply abandoning the subject all together. He said nothing, but the boy could not keep his mouth shut.

"It's that, isn't it? Poison is a coward's weapon."

Malik shrugged. "Not particularly," he said. "In your case poison was a wise choice. You would not have had a chance in fair combat. I am more concerned with the fact that you attempted to kill us at all. It is not an action which inspires trust." He shrugged. "But let us not speak of this. You would not be the first man to fall for the Templars' lies."

Marîd frowned as if Malik had just said something very sincere. "How do I know," he asked, "that I'm on the right side."

Malik, who had been about to answer with a flippant comment, paused, "You don't," he said, surprised into sincerity. "You just do the best you can, and hope it is enough."

Marîd's brow furrowed. "You speak like one of the imams."

Malik was not impressed by the compliment, if indeed it had been a compliment. He was not sure if he liked the comparison. "That I am not. But history will judge us."

The boy looked uncertain. Malik did not blame him. He had experienced the Templar's rewriting of history at first hand.

_History_, he thought, _shall remember us by the words of our enemies_.

He felt a trickle of dirt on his shoulder and looked up. At last, in the half-light of dawn, he saw Altaïr climbing down from the minaret of the Sankore with the orb in his hands.

Author's Note:

I have fan art! Go check out's nerrianah's awesome picture at my livejournal! (See author page for link). The mosques of Timbuktu really are fascinating. I'd love to go there someday. The Sankore is larger than it once was, but it's still made of mud. Altaïr's speech about good and evil men is quoted almost directly from the game, and Malik's quote about history remembering the Assassins by the words of their enemies comes from something I read but I can't find the book.

Enjoy! 


	7. Chapter 7

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Seven._

Altaïr jumped to the ground from the last pole of scaffolding with more caution than he usually displayed. He had wrapped the orb carefully in the ragged remnants of his veil. Mud still clung to the cheap cotton.

Malik kept his distance, unwilling to touch the fragment. He did not trust the magic of the orbs.

He trusted Marîd even less, but the boy would be easier to dispose of than the Apple of Eden. He inclined his head towards the bundle. "Where did you find it?"

"Encased in mud on the spire," Altaïr said, much more quietly than normal. "It seems that it had been undisturbed for years."

"Fortunate," Malik said.

Altaïr shrugged. "Fortune provides," he said.

_Yes_, Malik thought. _And sometimes it beats you to the ground when you are not expecting it. _He looked at the shrouded outline of the orb and saw Altaïr's hands tremble. "What did it show you?"

Altaïr shook his head. He flipped a fold of fabric away from the globe and held it out to Malik, careful not to let his bare skin touch the orb.

Malik regarded the apple suspiciously. He did not reach out to touch it. The orb seemed identical to the Eden fragments he had seen before. _Perhaps the pattern of grooves on its surface is a little different_, he thought. _I am not sure_. His breath hissed between his teeth as Altaïr flipped the orb. "Take care."

Altaïr grinned. He cupped the globe more securely in his palms. There was a solid quality about the artifact that bothered Malik. The orb seemed subtly more real than the dusty alley in which they stood. It was too perfect. And it smelt like all of the Eden pieces did-clean, like morning mist across the river. He hung back.

Altaïr held out the orb. "Take it."

Malik shook his head. "It'll be safer with you," he said, and was glad when Altaïr tucked the apple into his robe. "It's morning. We'd best be on our way."

"Because of the Tuareg?" Marîd said quietly. He stood with his back to the Assassins and stared out over the square.

Malik cursed the boy's propensity for asking stupid questions. "Yes. Just as we have told you."

The boy pointed. "_Those_ Tuareg?"

Altaïr's head snapped around.

Unpleasant anticipation crawled across Malik's shoulder-blades. He knew what he would see even as he turned. A huddle of tall men approached them across the square. They wore swords with an unusual cross-hilted design. Malik recognised the pattern. It was the same as the sword he had looted from their comrades.

Marîd slid a foot back, poised to flee. He tilted his head to look first at Malik and then at Altaïr with eyes made liquid by panic.

"Run," Altaïr said quietly. When the boy did not heed he said "Escape. Make for your master's house once you have eluded your pursuers."

"But-" Marîd protested.

"We'll meet you as planned," Altaïr ordered. "The square, at midday. Go!" He clapped Marîd on the shoulder. The brief contact snapped the bonds of fear that had held the boy paralysed. He ducked his head and fled into the alleys that surrounded the Sankore. The soles of his bare feet flashed in the half-light as he raced away. A pair of Tuareg peeled off from the approaching group to follow him.

The Assassins backed slowly towards the mosque's high walls.

"Clever to use the boy as bait," Malik muttered.

Altaïr shrugged. His hood fell over his face and obscured his features in deep shadow. "I had not thought of that until this moment," he confessed.

"Still. It worked," Malik said. "Two less to chase us." He reached for his knife. Beside him, Altaïr drew his sword.

The Kel Amenar fanned out across the square like a shower of arrows.

The Assassins ran.

Malik realized within a few paces that they had the advantage. The Tuareg warriors had come in a group, but they gave chase as individuals. They were an undisciplined and ill-armed rabble compared to the Syrian city guards. But the Tuareg knew Timbuktu. The Assassins did not.

Malik gritted his teeth and ran faster.

The sound of their pursuers' feet echoed from the high walls all around. The silvery grey sand that carpeted the streets was easy to see in the half-light, but it made running difficult. Mud-walled houses flickered across Malik's peripheral vision. He concentrated on the path in front of him, attempting to map the city in his mind. Should they head right? Or was left the better option? He couldn't remember. He dodged as a woman came out of one of the houses. She took one look at the running men and their sword-waving pursuers and retreated, instantly forgotten.

The Assassins ducked into an alley. A triumphant shout spilt the air behind them. Turning a corner, Malik was unsurprised to see a blind wall in front of them. He identified a dozen tiny hand-and footholds within a stride, dug his nails into a rotten wooden sill and hauled himself upwards. Higher up, Altaïr offered a hand which he would have refused on principle at any other time. Faced with pursuit, he wrapped his fingers around Altaïr's wiry wrist and yanked himself up the mud bricks.

Far below them, the Tuareg came to a crashing halt. Malik and Altaïr dragged themselves onto the flat roof and ran on.

Scrabbling sounds drifted from the alley behind them as the Tuareg tried unsuccessfully to climb the sheer wall. There was a sharp cry as the rotten windowsill crumbled beneath a nomad's weight. A life in the flat and featureless desert had not prepared the Kel Amenar for climbing.

The Assassins did not wait for their pursuers to catch up with them. They set a rough course to their lodgings and navigated on instinct. Sometimes Malik led, sometimes Altaïr. The city spread out obligingly beneath them.

They had almost reached the caravanserai when Altaïr flung out a hand in warning. Malik skidded to a halt on the very edge of a flat roof. Tiny particles of sand-encrusted mud drifted onto the blue turbans of the Tuareg waiting in the street below. Malik and Altaïr crouched on the roof and listened as a pair of the Kel Amenar vented their frustration in barbarous but perfectly intelligible Arabic.

"Madness!" one said. "They must be genies or jinn!"

The nomad's companion shook his head. He brushed sand from the shoulders of his robe. "Just men. We will find them."

_You will not_, Malik thought from the roof. He whispered to Altaïr, "We can't kill them. It will only make things worse."

Altaïr shook his head doubtfully. "There may not be any other way," he whispered.

Malik disagreed. The last thing that they needed was yet more nomads bent on blood revenge. "You have the orb still?" he asked Altaïr.

"Of course."

"We'll evade them and make our way to the house."

Altaïr nodded. "Do you know where it is?"

"I think so, from here." Malik said quietly. "The tanneries are that way. I can smell them. We'll head east." He led them back across a roof and down a ladder to a different street, pausing for a moment as a pair of old men in blue-dyed turbans walked around the corner until he realized that their turbans were the wrong shade of blue. He touched his heart and nodded. "Our pardon, gentlemen."

The old men just stared.

Altaïr inclined his head and shouldered past the men. His head snapped around as somebody shouted behind them. Three Kel Amenar skidded around the corner. They had sheathed their swords for ease of movement but were no less threatening for all that. The scarves wrapped around their faces gave them a sinister air.

Malik ran. Behind him, he heard Altaïr spit a curse and follow.

The streets of Timbuktu were far quieter than those of Jerusalem. Malik and Altaïr had a clear path, but there were no crowds for them to hide in. And Malik had a feeling that the Tuareg were far too wily to be fooled by simply sitting down on a bench and pretending to do something else.

He scoured the walls around them as he ran, searching for a route up to the roof. There were no merchants in this quarter, and no handily placed crates to clamber onto. The houses presented smooth faces to the outside world.

After a few minutes of headlong flight Malik saw a cart parked outside a building. He jumped onto it without hesitation. As the fragile wood began to splinter beneath his weight he leapt from the cart and locked his good hand in the wooden grille of a first-floor window. Altaïr followed a second later. Malik gritted his teeth and leapt for the adjacent window as soon as he had secured his grip. Altaïr crashed into the grille he had just vacated.

There was a window an arms' length above his head. Malik wedged the toes of his boots in the grille and jumped again. He made it-barely. Moving with painstaking patience despite the sounds of pursuit from beneath him, he placed the soles of his feet flat on the crumbling mud walls and walked his feet up the wall until he could gain a higher handhold. Ahead of him, Altaïr had already gained the roof.

Malik climbed as quickly as he could manage. Altaïr leaned over and offered a hand, but Malik shook his head. He needed all his concentration, and he had no free hand. Relinquishing his one good grip would result in a fall of two storeys and the uncertain attentions of the Kel Amenar.

The lattice to the right hand side of Malik's head shattered as one of the Tuareg tossed a stone. Malik jammed one of his feet in the grille, muttered a quick prayer and let go with his hand, pushing upwards with his feet and straightening his back at the same time. His hand caught the edge of the roof. Mud and straw crumbled under his fingers, but he brought his knee up and wedged his foot in the smashed wooden lattice. Stones peppered the adobe where Malik's body had been just as he rolled onto the roof.

Altaïr shook his head. "I told you we should have killed them."

Malik had no breath to reply. He shook his head and got to his feet. They set off again across the rooftops of Timbuktu.

If the houses in this neighbourhood were plainer than the ones in the merchant quarter, the roofs were equally as uncluttered. The Assassins made good time. Malik recognised the roof of their caravanserai from the date palms that grew at each corner of the building. They dropped quietly onto the small roof terrace, boots stirring up years of dust as they landed, and made their way into the building without incident. The caravanserai was dark and blissfully quiet. Malik pushed the door of their room open warily, but nobody appeared. The room was just as they had left it. Two thin pallets lay against the walls. A pair of threadbare cushions lay on the floor beside an earthenware jog and a couple of beakers. Everything was covered by a fine coat of desert sand.

Malik brushed sand from his mattress and sat down. His heart pounded in his chest. The blood pulsed in his missing arm. The sensation was not exactly painful, but it set Malik's teeth on edge. Sand clung to his sweat-streaked face and he scrubbed at the mess irritably with his sleeve.

_I need a bath_, he thought, and corrected himself. _No. I need to kill someone, and then I need a bath_.

Altaïr closed the door behind them both and sat down opposite Malik. His chest heaved and his white robe was stained with mud, but he was smiling like a lunatic. He flexed his fingers and the blade hidden in his left hand slid out with a soft _click_. "That was a good chase," he said. "It has been far too long."

"It would have been better if we had not needed to run at all," Malik retorted. He reached for the water jug, poured two cups of water and slid one across the floor to Altaïr.

Altaïr nodded in thanks. He took a deep draught of water and wiped his face with his sleeve. Once the cloth was streaked with red sand and his face was relatively clean, he reached into his robe and produced the shrouded Eden fragment.

Malik finished his own drink and looked up. "What did you see?"

Altaïr said nothing. He unwrapped the Apple of Eden from its nest of tattered cloth. The gloomy light that emanated from the room's narrow slit of a window cast murky shadows on the orb's surface. From a distance, it looked like it was alive. Malik peered at it suspiciously. "What was it like?" he asked.

Altaïr shrugged. He pulled the last of the wrapping from the Eden fragment, said "See for yourself," and tossed the orb to Malik.

Malik caught the globe instinctively. He just had time to register the weight of cool metal on the bare skin of his palm before the room around him vanished and he plunged into blackness.

The darkness lasted only for a second before it blossomed into light. Malik saw a vast city of glass minarets around a wide river. Each column was taller than the spire of the Acre cathedral. Tiny figures ran between the towers. They called to each other in voices that Malik could not understand.

He _did_ understand the screams.

Malik watched helplessly as flames erupted from the base of each tower. Debris cascaded from the higher floors in showers of crystal glass. The sky grew dark with smoke and ash as the world beneath burned.

Malik could not look away. He watched as people poured frantically out of the buildings, calling to each other in their strangely accented voices. They tumbled down cracks in the smooth grey paths, vanished beneath falling debris or ignited into human torches. Flames spread to cover their bodies as the towers above them toppled and their city collapsed in on itself, folding into a mass grave.

Malik smelt the stink of burning flesh. He felt the waves of heat blister his face. Coughing, he tried to cover his eyes, but he had no hands. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not look away. The flames below ebbed and rose again in a whirling firestorm of embers. Below him, a river boiled. The blaze leaped high enough to blind him and Malik jerked away.

He came out of the vision fighting. The Giza orb's visions had come as a relative surprise. This time Malik knew exactly what had happened and, more importantly, he knew who to blame for it.

"You bastard," he said to Altaïr.

The Assassin shrugged apologetically. "Did you see it?"

Malik nodded. The Eden fragment glowed softly in his hand. He forced himself to pass it back to Altaïr rather than to dash it against the wall like a deadly scorpion. "The flames? Yes, I saw them. I saw it all."He rubbed his forehead. "Could you not have _told_ me?"

Altaïr wrapped the fragment gently in his veil. "You would not have understood."

"Understood?" Malik said. "I understand nothing. Destroy the orb. Burn it-bury it in the desert, I care not which."

"What if it is the only clue to preventing this-this holocaust?" Altaïr curved a protective hand over the orb.

"What if it _caused_ it? Altaïr, we have no way of knowing if that...that city existed in the past, or in the future. You said yourself that it has a way of bending time. The holocaust, as you call it, may have already happened. If it has, then we can do nothing to prevent it."

"Those towers were like nothing I have ever seen."

"True, but neither were the pyramids. Some lost civilisation may have built towers of crystal." Malik knew even as the words left his mouth that it was a lost cause. "It is not possible to see into the future, Altaïr."

"Neither is it possible for a man to duplicate his body, but the orbs helped Al Mualim to do just that, before he died," Altaïr said stubbornly.

Malik shook his head. The only thing he was sure of was that he wanted nothing to do with the orb and its visions. "Suppose you are right," he said, "and the vision is of the future. Is it a true vision, or simply a thing of dreams and shadows? Suppose that, like the barber in Persepolis who had the appointment with death, we cause it to become simply by trying to avoid it? We cannot change our fate."

The other Assassin shook his head. He did not speak for a long time, and when he did it took Malik by surprise. "What if the holocaust is the Templars' doing?"

"You do not know that," Malik protested.

"Why else would the Apple show us these visions?"

Malik could think of a dozen reasons, none of them good. "It could be a message, a warning, or a trap," he said. "Or even a toy. A thing does not have to have meaning to exist."

Altaïr nodded. "Very true," he said. "But I think that this power is what the Templars seek. One man could hold such a weapon like a sword over the throat of the world."

"That is a wide leap of faith."

"We make leaps of faith every day, Malik."

"Maybe so. But you have no proof."

"This is why we should return the fragment to Masyaf," Altaïr said eagerly. "You call yourself a scholar-"

"On the contrary," Malik said sharply. "I call myself nothing of the sort."

Altaïr shrugged. "It matters not," he said, brushing away Malik's acerbic remark as if it was nothing at all. "You, of all people, should understand. You said once that if things cannot be hidden, then they must be safeguarded. Very well. We will keep them safe."

"It would be _safer_," Malik said, laying heavy emphasis on the last word, "sealed away."

"Learn about it, _then_ seal it. That is the only way. You know how the Templars will use the orbs."

Malik nodded. "They'll use them to control people. Even if we do not destroy the fragment now," he conceded, "we should be cautious."

Altaïr smiled. "On that, at least, we agree."

"If on nothing else," Malik muttered. He rested his hand on his forehead and felt the imprint of the Eden fragment on his palm. "If that's done, we should rest. It's a while still until midday. I'll stand watch, while you sleep." He was unlikely to sleep himself. The image of the flames had burned itself onto his mind.

Altaïr opened his mouth, but whether to protest or agree Malik never knew. Somebody knocked at the door. Both Assassins rose fluidly from their sleeping pallets. Altaïr flattened himself behind the door, ready to slam it closed on an intruder. Malik checked the dagger in his sash. He raised his voice. "Come in!"

The door creaked open and the weathered face of the caravanserai's proprietor appeared. "Everything all right?"

Certainly," Malik said, relaxing a fraction. "What news?"

"None important enough to bother you with," the man said unctuously. "I have a message for your companion, _sayyid_. Is he here?"

Malik shot a glance at Altaïr, who was flattened behind the door a hands-span from the man's face, trying to breathe quietly. He shook his head imperceptibly, and Altaïr stepped back."No," he said."I'll take it for him, though."

The innkeeper looked doubtful for a moment. Malik pulled a coin from his sash. The gleam of silver seemed to change the man's mind. He handed Malik a tattered slip of parchment, bowed and vanished.

Malik closed and locked the door behind him. He listened until the man's footsteps had retreated before he turned the letter over to check its seal. "From Masyaf," he said, handing the letter to Altaïr.

The Assassin nodded. He ran his thumb under the edge of the letter to peel away the dusty seal. The writing on the sheet's obverse was sparse; a single line of flowing, hurried script. The contents, however, seemed to give Altaïr pause for thought. He read the letter once, read it again and turned the parchment over before he looked up at Malik.

"Nasr's dead," he said simply.

Author's Note:

Malik's vision is directly inspired by page 16 of Altaïr's Codex in AC2.' _Of all the things I've seen, none troubles me more than the image of the flames... Pillars so tall they seemed to pierce the heavens. The ground rumbled and shuddered. Mountains split and crack. Great metal towers splintered, their innards strewn about the ground... And everywhere there was screaming. A chorus so terrible that even now I feel its echoes still._'

The story of the barber of Persepolis (or Baghdad, or Isfahan) is an old folktale about predestination and free will. A man bumps into Death one day in the marketplace of his home town. Death glares at the barber, who is so frightened he borrows a horse from his best friend and flees to the city of Samara. The friend asks Death why he stared at the barber, and Death replies that he was merely surprised to see the barber in Persepolis, as he has an appointment with him in Samara that evening.


	8. Chapter 8

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Eight._

"Dead?" Malik said. "How?"

Altaïr shook his head. "They did not say."

Malik reached for the parchment. "It does not make sense," he said. "Why did they bother sending a letter all this way just to tell you-" He paused to read the short message. "Oh. Congratulations."

"Your compliments would sound better if you did not speak in such a tone," Altaïr said sourly.

"I don't know what you mean," Malik said. He folded up the parchment and punched Altaïr gently on the shoulder. "Peace and fortune to you. You will be the next Old Man."

"Old Man? I am younger than you!"

Malik smirked. "Not by much."

Altaïr scowled. He retrieved the letter from Malik and sat back down on his pallet. "This changes things."

"It surely does. It is a pity that when we finally have the _fidai'in_ of Masyaf at our backs rather than our throats, we are too far away to use them."

"This is bad timing." Altaïr shook his head. "We-_I-_must return as soon as possible. Syria is many weeks' journey from here."

"The Hesperides?"

"Must wait, for now."

Malik was relieved. The thought of spending another year searching for an Eden fragment that he was not sure he particularly wanted to find did not appeal. "So we'll take ship from Sale, as Shindouk suggested," he said. "Return to Masyaf, and –" He hesitated, thought for a moment and said reluctantly. "You have to go, but I do not. I could travel into the Atlas. Find the apple, and return to Syria. It might not take long."

"You would do that?"

Malik gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I do not want to," he confessed. "But it makes sense."

"I will consider it."

"I only offer what is best for the Order. I-" Malik paused as he heard sandals slapping down the corridor outside. _Just one man_, he thought, _moving slowly_. "The innkeeper?"

Altaïr nodded. He got up to open the door. The innkeeper's sandals stopped outside the door just as he slid the bolts to reveal the old man's startled face. "Your pardon, _sayyid_," he said to Altaïr. "I did not see you come in."

Altaïr ignored him. "You have business?" he asked.

The innkeeper looked startled. "I-yes, I do." He looked past Altaïr and caught Malik's eye. "A thousand apologies. I have another message. The two arrived together but I had mislaid this until now."

"Me?" Malik said, surprised. It was a miracle that the first letter had arrived. He had not expected a second, and he had certainly not expected it to be addressed to him. "How?"

The innkeeper held out a letter. It was even more dog-eared than Altaïr's message. "They told me to deliver it to the one-armed man."

Malik scowled. He liked to think that he had more distinguishing features than a missing arm. "Who gave it you?"

The merchant shrugged. "Same people who gave me the other one. Traders bring all of our letters." He paused to spit on the floor. "By the time they arrive, they've passed through so many hands it's a miracle if we can read them." He held up the dirty message in illustration.

Altaïr did not bother to reward the innkeeper with a coin. He took the letter with the smallest of nods and closed the door on the innkeeper as soon as the man had turned away. Wedging the letter in his sash, he bolted the door and sat back down on the pallet opposite Malik.

Malik held out his hand. "Pass it over."

Altaïr examined the creased parchment closely. He did not pass the letter to Malik. "Jerusalem's wealthiest weapons merchant must want you very badly to send a message all this way."

Malik did not understand at first. He was about to tell Altaïr that in that case it was all a horrible mistake when he realised just who the letter was from. "What?" he said lamely.

"That is his seal," Altaïr said, pointing at the ornate insignia of interlocked crossbows graced the parchment. "I'd heard he was dead."

Malik reached over and snatched the letter from Altaïr. He cracked the seal and unfolded the paper, holding it in such a way that Altaïr could not see the contents.

Like Altaïr's message, the letter was short.

_Malik_, it began.

_I have heard of the troubles at Masyaf._

Malik was not surprised. Nusaybah heard of everything. She had been one of his informants during his brief tenure as _dai_ of Jerusalem. For a short time, she had been more.

_I am glad to hear that you are alive_, the letter continued, _if somewhat lacking in manners. It is customary to settle any debts before embarking on a journey and there is one debt you have not paid. Madj Addin's death did not count for all._

_I shall be waiting in Jerusalem whenever you care to find me._

_Your sister in peace,_

_Nusaybah. _

Nusaybah's signature was large and florid, quite unlike the woman herself. The weapons' merchant's widow was small and manipulative. She had a wicked sense of humour and a taste for politics. Malik mentally cursed. He tried hard to keep his face impassive and thought he had succeeded until Altaïr linked his hands above his head, stretched and said casually. "Who is Nusaybah?"

Malik looked at Altaïr, back at the letter with its large signature, and back at Altaïr. "You have hawk's eyes," he said.

"Do not change the subject."  
Malik decided to brazen it out. "She is-_was_-my informer in Jerusalem," he said.

Altaïr nodded. He seemed to lose all interest in the letter. Malik relaxed. He refolded the message and tucked it sash just as Altaïr looked up from a series of knuckle-cracking finger exercises and said only, "Interesting."

Malik sighed. "_What_ is interesting?"  
"The only woman I know in Jerusalem under that name-it is unusual, to be sure- is the weapon-maker's widow." He looked thoughtful. "That would explain the seal."  
Malik had not heard that Nusaybah's husband had died. "Widow?"

"Her husband Rashid ibn Sinan has been dead this last year. Or so I have heard." He cocked his head and fixed Malik with a questioning gaze. "You didn't-"

The pause was unmistakeable. "Kill him? No! I would not do that." Malik paused. "At least, not without good reason. I have never even met the man."

Altaïr shrugged. "So it is her," he said. "I remember. She seemed charming enough."  
Malik remembered Nusaybah's rapier wit, her perfume and her teasing smile. "She is."  
"So you admit it?"  
"I admit nothing." Malik snapped.  
"It is not the way of the Brotherhood to dally with informants. She could have betrayed you to the Templars. "  
Malik had had enough, "I am still here, am I not?" he snapped, "And whatever you think, it is not true."

"Can I read the letter? It may be of value to the Brotherhood."

Malik gritted his teeth. He was wise enough not to protest. _In truth_, he thought, _the letter is innocent enough. _He sat motionless as Altaïr read Nusaybah's untidy script and was surprised when the other Assassin handed the letter back without saying more than "Madj Addin?"

Malik shrugged. "She had common cause with the Brotherhood. Coincidence, nothing more."

"Of course," Altaïr said.

If Malik had been surprised before, he was twice as surprised now. "That's all?"

Altaïr nodded. "Yes. Now, let us rest. We should complete this journey quickly, and hurry back. No doubt the woman could use some comfort, with her husband so recently dead."

"Recently? You said it's been a year!"

"Still. No. Do not hit me. Save your strength. You will need it."

Malik scowled. "Take care that my knife does not find your back in the dark, Altaïr."  
"You would miss anyway," Altaïr said, unperturbed by the threat. "But I was serious about the risks of dallying with informers. Men-and women-who can be bought once may yet be bought again. A beautiful snake is still a snake."

"It wasn't that. She wanted some favour or other."

Ah. It is as if you are married already."

Malik ignored Altaïr's sly smile. "If you have finished," he said, "there is work to be done."

"There is still time. We do not meet with Shindouk until midday."

"Then I'm going to sleep."

"I thought you would not sleep?"

Malik was about to point out that nearly anything was preferable to Altaïr's mockery when he realised that the lingering memories of the Eden fragment horrors had very nearly faded. Altaïr's teasing, unintentional or not, had done its work well. "I was wrong."

"Frequently."

Malik did not bother to reply. He left Nusaybah's letter on the bare earth floor and settled down onto his pallet with his hand over his eyes. Through the grilled window he could hear the shouts of street traders and carters as Timbuktu opened for such business as it could muster. It was hot, but not unbearably so.

He had thought that he would never sleep again after the vision of the flaming city, but the next thing he heard was Altaïr's quiet cough and "Malik? We must go."

Malik blinked sleep from his eyes and sat up. His hand reached automatically for the hilt of his dagger. Weapons checked and ready, he poured himself another cup of water, spat out the thin dusty film that floated on the surface and brushed dust from his clothes. Altaïr was already up and fully armed. He looked rested, although Malik doubted he had slept.

They took what remained of their possessions from the dingy room and left a few coins in the middle of the floor as payment for their lodgings.

Altaïr pulled his hood up to cover his head as they walked out into the street. Malik pulled the veil he had used for desert travel up to shroud the lower part of his face. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the third tenet of the Assassins, the _taqiyya_, which allowed them to deny their heritage and hide in plain sight. And if it gave Assassins the reputation for being devious, then Malik did not think that it was undeserved.

They gave the Sankore a wide berth and arrived at the square Shindouk had indicated without incident. Malik hardly recognised the man, which he guessed was the point. Shindouk had dispensed with his customary clothing and had swathed himself in layers of white robes. He turned as the Assassins approached and grinned. "Welcome!"

Malik and Altaïr nodded.

Shindouk indicated a smaller bundle of white fabric beside him. "Marîd tells me that you got what you came for," he said. Evidently they were not familiar enough that pleasantries could be safely dispensed with, Malik thought. Or perhaps Shindouk was just in too much of a hurry. He nodded, surprised to find that he was glad to see the boy.

Shindouk beamed. "Good!" His cheerful demeanour had hardly altered, despite their dire situation. "We are nearly ready to go." His brow furrowed as he glanced around at the small group of camels."We have little enough to pack."

"No other men?" Altaïr asked.

Shindouk shook his head. "I would not ask it of them. It is a long way to Morocco, and would be dangerous enough even without the Kel Amenar at our heels. But Marîd tells me that you eluded the nomads."

"For now," Altaïr said.  
"God wills," Shindouk said. He tightened his camel's saddle-straps and squeezed the water-skin slung under the camel's belly. The skin sloshed. Shindouk withdrew his hand, satisfied. "We are almost ready."

"When we will be ready?" Malik asked. He looked critically around at the assembled camels. All appeared equally unpleasant.

Shindouk shrugged. "Two weeks or thereabouts." His smile widened in direct disproportion to his words. "But we'll be able to go shortly. Have your brought your packs?"

Malik gestured at the small bundles that they carried. "We don't have much left. Still, we'll help, if we can."

"You have blades." Shindouk said. "That is enough."

Malik frowned. They had one sword, a dozen throwing knives and Altaïr's hidden blade between them. He did not think it was nearly enough. Maybe all the weapons they could carry would not be enough. They would have to see.

Shindouk took Malik's silence for agreement. He smiled widely and gestured to Marîd. "Bring the red one and the three-year-old for our guests. Hurry! We must mount!"

Marîd led a pair of camels forwards. Malik approached the nearest beast with trepidation. He tapped it knee and it knelt easily. He swung aboard and shifted his grip as the camel lurched to its feet. Shindouk mounted with considerably more grace. He clicked his tongue, glanced around at the square and laid the camel-stick across his beast's neck. Marîd and Altaïr mounted their own camels, and they were on their way.

They left the walls of Timbuktu behind them and walked away across the sands. There were plenty of nomads, but none with the cross-hilted swords that marked the Kel Amenar.

_Of course_, Malik thought, _they could have just abandoned the swords_.

It was an unnerving thought. They were outnumbered by an enemy which they could not easily identify. The Kel Amenar knew the territory and would no doubt recognise Malik and Altair on sight. _Maybe_, Malik thought, _this is what the Templars feel like all the time_.

He stared uneasily around as they left the city behind them and trudged up the same steep incline that Malik remembered descending so few days ago. His clothes were already sticky with sweat by the time they reached the top.

Shindouk led them by the best trails he knew. They followed unmapped paths through wild and desolate wastes of sand. As the day wore on they passed a few shepherds, and then not even that. The sands changed colour from yellow to a pale golden-green and then to the colour of dried blood.

Malik tried not to think of it as an omen. He failed.

They stopped for a few hours at noon and pushed on as fast as they dared across the blazing plain. They saw other people twice in the distance: herders or travellers, but Shindouk only shook his head and led them in the opposite direction. "We don't want to stop, not even for news," he said. "In this desert, news soon gets around."

On the second day they left the rolling dunes behind and entered a salt-flat which stretched out for miles along the floor of a wide valley. The sands merged into the sky somewhere far ahead. There was no living thing in sight and certainly no Tuareg. The only enemies they met were the heat, the flies and the wind.

By the time they had crossed the salt flats Malik was half-wishing that the Tuareg would attack and put them all out of their misery. He was glad when Shindouk called a halt. Marîd unloaded the camels and took them off in the hope of finding food. The sun was near zenith by the time that he returned. Malik was fiddling with his saddle in the hope of making it a bit more comfortable and failing miserably when Marîd sidled up. "I am sorry," he said before he had come within ten paces of Malik.  
Malik was not in the mood for apologies. "Don't waste your time." he said. He wasn't sure himself what the boy was apologising for, but there was an awful lot to pick from.

The boy fidgeted. "I just wanted to ask," he said, digging at the sand with his toes, "Did you mean what you said?"

"What I said when?"

"About never being sure if you were on the right side?"

Malik sighed. He skinned his knuckle on the saddle's frame and shoved it back into place with a curse. "You shouldn't take everything I say seriously."

Marîd bowed. "But you are right," he said. "I was foolish to believe the Templars and-" He paused at the look on Malik's face. "You don't believe me?"

"Why should I? If I were in your shoes-he paused. Yu are abandoned with the Templars. It makes sense, therefore, to ally yourself with the Assassins. No doubt once we reach Fez, you will crawl back to your Templar masters yet again."

Marîd looked hurt. "No, _sidi_," he said.

Malik did not believe him. He sighed. "Tell me, how did you escape the Tuareg?"

"I ran. Very fast. Then I hid in a clay pot made for water." The boy looked proud.

"A pot?"

"It was a big pot."

"Foolish, again. Never hide in a place that you cannot escape from."

The boy nodded eagerly, as if Malik was giving a lesson. "I will remember."

"Pray that you will never have to." Malik snapped, hoping that the boy would go away. It worked. Marîd shrugged and sidled off with his camels.

They set off again when the day was cool enough to continue, walked into the night, set up camp, slept, rode on, stopped at noon and repeated the whole thing again. It was a simple routine.

They continued like that for two days. On the third day, Malik saw a shepherd's hut far off in the distance. He watched it until it vanished beyond the horizon and thought longingly of a time when seeing a shepherd's goat-hair tent had not been the highlight of his day.

By the fifth day, they had finished half of their water. Malik questioned Shindouk, who seemed unconcerned. "A well is very near. God willing, we shall reach it by nightfall."

"Good," Malik said.

Shindouk was right on both counts but there was nothing good about the well when they reached it. Indeed, Malik would not even have known that it was supposed to be a well. He saw only a shallow depression in the sand. Shindouk frowned at the tangle of dying thorn bushes around the pit.

"Can't we dig down?"

The Tuareg shook his head. "It may be too far. The last time I passed this was a good well. Deep, with a wooden lining. It's been filled in."

"Who would-" Marîd asked, and paused as the three men scowled. "Oh." He tugged the camels towards the dying scrub, but the beasts refused to eat.  
Even Shindouk looked concerned. "I know where there is water," he said. "But we will have to make a detour."

"Let me guess-into Kel Amenar territory?" asked Altaïr.

Shindouk looked even more unhappy. "We have been in Kel Amenar territory for the best part of a day. They may attack at any time."

"Do they know of this other well?"

"Of course. Once they realise where we are heading, they shall attack much sooner. There is a spring I know two days' journey from here, beneath a rock. It will not be stopped so easily. We shall find water there, but I fear we shall find trouble much sooner." He shrugged. "It cannot be helped."

"Which way?"

Shindouk pointed to the east. "That way."

They rested for a while and set off in the new direction. Malik tried not to think of running water. It seemed that Altaïr had had the same thought, because after a while he sidled over to Malik and drew him aside. "I could use the Eden fragment," he offered.

Malik's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How?"

"It's not just the visions. It speaks to me of other things. It holds information...old maps. All kinds of-"

Malik cut him off. "Can it make water?"

" No." Altaïr said reluctantly. "But-"

"Then it's useless," Malik said sourly. "I don't-"

He broke off as the dunes all around them sprouted armed men. Malik tried to count them, but he gave up at twenty. Thirty? Too many, anyway.

The Assassins drew their swords.

The Kel Amenar shouted as one and charged.

Author's Note: Yeargh. I have nothing to say for this one. I'm in the middle of a house/job move, and I'm going to bed.


	9. Chapter 9

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

_Chapter Nine._

_We're dead_, Malik thought.  
There was no point in running. There was nowhere to run _to_. Blue-robed men were everywhere, backed by yellow desert. Malik drew a knife. The blade looked pathetically small in his hand.

_Four men against thirty_, he thought. _No; two men, a boy and an old man. Even an idiot would know that those are not good odds._

He reined his camel back and glanced around for Altaïr. The other Assassin had not moved. Metal glinted in his hand, but it was not a blade. "What are you doing?"

Altaïr cupped the Eden fragment more tightly. "I think I can use it!"  
Malik's camel shied. He cursed and yanked it into a tight circle. "So did Al Mualim! Look how he ended up! Draw your damn sword!"  
"Would you rather die? How can this get worse?"  
Malik opened his mouth to protest. He thought for a moment before he closed it again. Assassin warfare was effectively lethal, but it was useless while outnumbered by well armed men in an area without cover.

Altaïr said nothing else. As the Tuareg galloped towards them he steadied his camel and held the Eden fragment above his head. The metal sphere gleamed in the sun and opened like a flower.

If the gleam of sunlight on its silver case had been bright, then the light inside the globe itself was blinding. Malik cursed. He let go his hold on the camel's reins to shield his eyes. For a moment, he could have sworn that he could see the bones of his hand underneath his skin. The sound of charging men and camels dimmed and the light faded. Malik opened his eyes cautiously. The globe was still bright, but it faded as he watched it. His stomach lurched as he remembered the Tuareg and turned with knife in hand to stare.

The nomads were petrified, as motionless as insects trapped in amber. They were close enough that he could make out the gleam of saliva on the bared teeth of the camels, or the straining tendons in a man's wrist as he lifted his heavy blade.

The Eden fragment clicked closed.

The Tuareg roared and came to life.

Malik flinched despite himself. He gripped his knife so tightly that the metal rivets on the handle dug into his flesh. He had thought that the globe had frozen their enemies for more than a moment. _We should have run while we had the chance_, he thought, but had barely time to consider the idea before the Kel Amenar screamed like hunting eagles and turned on each other. 

The nearest nomad was no more than ten camel-strides away. Eyes rolling, he dropped his reins and swung his sword wildly at something that was not there. The blade bit deeply into the chest of the man next to him. The wounded man roared and stabbed his opponent in the thigh. Both men tumbled from their camels. A moment later they clawed to their feet and continued their fight on the ground. Their camels loped on for a few paces until a stray beast slammed into them. All three camels went down in a tumble of spit and broken legs. They were close enough that the spray of sand should have touched the travellers, but Malik felt nothing. Two of the three camels shook their heads and limped away. They passed one on either side on the small group of travellers, without even seeming to see them. It was as if they were not even there.  
Around them, the Tuareg tore each other apart.

Malik looked frantically around. He was relieved to see that the madness did not seem to have spread to the travellers. Altaïr still held the orb high. His face was invisible beneath his hood. Marîd's face was pale and slick with sweat. Shindouk's expression was unreadable. Their camels shifted skittishly but made no attempt to run. Malik thought that they were either more sensible or far more stupid than he had thought.

Shindouk shook his head. "They fight like demons," he muttered.

Malik turned his gaze back to the battle. He could not disagree. Only seven men still stood. The Kel Amenar fought fiercely, without any regard for self-protection. Malik watched a man who had just taken a sword in the gut wrap his hands around his opponent's neck and squeeze until the man's eyes filled with blood. Once the man had sunk to the floor the Tuareg wrapped his bare hands around the sword that impaled him. He yanked out three feet of steel slick with gore and waved it in the air. Another man stabbed him in the back with a long dagger and he went to his knees with a howl. The sand around his feet darkened with blood.

Malik watched it all. The slaughter sickened him. He had killed many men, but this was different. Assassin kills were quick. This was not.

It was a soldier's way to respect suffering, so Malik watched the Kel Amenar murder each other until there were only a few left. He watched as the last nomad left standing held up his left hand and stared at his splayed fingers for a long moment before he severed each digit one after another. When every finger on his hand rolled on the floor he reversed the blade and drove it into his chest up to the hilt. The sword stuck up like a flagpole from his ribs as he tumbled to the floor and Malik turned his gaze away.

A wide circle of clean sand surrounded the caravan. The sand inside the circle was marked only with footprints. The dunes outside the ring were strewn with bloody corpses.

Shindouk sat on his camel and regarded the dead men without a word. Next to him, Marîd emptied his stomach onto the sands. Altaïr had lowered the Eden fragment. He cradled it in his hands as if in prayer; looking like the monk he sometimes pretended to be.

"Altaïr!" Malik snapped.

The other Assassin did not answer. The orb in his hands dimmed. Flecks of light rippled along the engravings that pitted its surface.

Malik cursed. He jabbed his camel in the ribs until it sidled up to Altaïr, reached out and touched Altaïr's arm."Altaïr?"

He only brushed Altaïr's arm lightly, but the other Assassin slumped and toppled to the side. Malik grabbed for his sleeve, but he was half a second too late. His fingers closed on empty air. Altaïr landed on his face in the sand and lay motionlessly. The Eden fragment rolled away.

Malik jumped from his camel without bothering to force it to kneel. His curses increased in both imagination and number as he placed his good hand on Altaïr's shoulder and pulled. Altaïr's body was a dead weight. He had to adjust his grip and try again. This time he succeeded. Once he had Altaïr lying on his back he placed his palm over Altaïr's mouth and felt the movement of air upon his skin.

Malik held out his hand behind him without bothering to look around. "Water."

There was a pause before a water bag sailed over his shoulder and landed with a thud on the sand in front of him. To Malik's surprise it was not Shindouk who had thrown it, but Marîd. The youth's face was olive-pale, but he nodded at Malik as he wiped his hand across his mouth.

Malik nodded back, loosened the stopper on the flask and upended it across Altaïr's face. The other Assassin spluttered. His right hand came up to brush water from his eyes. Malik exhaled. "So," he said. "You're alive."

Altaïr's first words were more gasp than speech. "The Apple?"

Malik sighed and looked around. He saw the Eden fragment half-buried in the sand an arm's length away. All the light had vanished from the globe. It looked dull, and surprisingly ordinary. One of Shindouk's tethered camels lowered its head and sniffed at the orb. The brief touch of its velvet nose seemed to have no effect, but when the camel's long grey tongue curled out to lick the orb a tiny spark alighted on its muzzle and it jerked its head up as if it had been stung.

Malik got to his feet. He pushed the camel away and scooped the globe up in a fold of his robe, thinking all the while that no man was meant to meddle with such things. He would have hurled away into the sands, but he knew from bitter experience that such things had a way of being found. Could it ever be destroyed? Burned, maybe? Buried? He did not know.

He wrapped the Eden fragment in his sash and knelt down beside Altaïr. "What _was_ that?"

Altaïr had pushed himself to a seated position, but his face was pale. Malik handed his the remnants of the bottle of water and he drank before he replied. "I did not mean..."Anguish hissed between his teeth, "I was trying to conceal us."

"You failed." Malik said pitilessly.

"I know."

Malik sighed. "I should not have let you do it."

Altaïr scowled with a touch of his old fire. "It was not _your_ decision to make."

"And I doubt it was yours. That cursed orb-"

"I had thought to make illusions..." Altaïr paused. He wiped a slug of blood from his nose and only succeeded in smearing it more widely across his face. "I-I did not know it could do that."

Malik only shook his head. They stared out across the field of corpses. Flies buzzed in the heat. The blood that stained the sands was already beginning to clot. Exposed flesh and muscle curled and dried in the sun.

"You asked me to remind you what use the orb was," Altaïr said after a while.  
Malik shook his head. "Don't remind me. I can remember for myself." The dead were already beginning to smell. He fought the urge to vomit and succeeded. Behind him, Marîd retched again.  
"Magic?" Shindouk asked quietly.

"In truth," Altaïr said, "I do not know."

The old Tuareg nodded. He looked like he was considering taking his chances with the remnants of the Kel Amenar. "So this is what you were searching for."

Marîd wiped his mouth. "That was what was hidden in the mosque?"

Malik nodded.

"It is enough to make me wish I had never pointed you to the Sankore," Shindouk said bitterly.

"You were right." Altaïr glanced at the corpses before he turned his gaze back to their travelling companions. "After all, we found it there."  
"I do not often regret being right," Shindouk said. He had pulled his veil across his face; now he tucked it beneath his chin so that they could all see his expression. "They would have killed us, but this-"  
"Will they chase us now?" Malik asked practically. Gazing round at the slaughtered corpses, he had visions of a blood feud that spread to involve the whole continent.

Shindouk's smile twisted. "Nobody will dare chase us now."

Altaïr nodded slowly. "They would not. Such devastation-" His gaze sharpened and he wrenched his head around to stare at Malik. "The Apple could certainly have caused the holocaust in the vision!"

Malik did not particularly want to remember the vision. He nodded.

Shindouk's eyes flicked to Altaïr and then to Malik. "Visions? As well as all this, the orb...gives you visions?"  
Malik nodded. "It shows the future."  
The old Tuareg's face sharpened into curiosity. "What did you see?"  
"Nothing good," Malik told him.  
Shindouk nodded as if he understood. Maybe he even did. "Ah. Then my curiosity comes to an end here. I do not wish to know. "

Malik wished that he did not. "Very wise."

"We are alive. If those others are not it is because God wished it so." The old Tuareg's head swivelled to take in the scene of devastation that surrounded them. "You must have wondrous things to do so that he would spare your lives at the expense of so many others."  
"Should we bury them?" Marîd asked uncertainly.

Malik knew the answer, but he left it to Shindouk to reply. Assassins did not bury their kills. Other people did it for them. "No. There are too many and it is too hot. We cannot spare the water. The sand will cover them. Leave them here. There are worse graves." He brushed a fly from his face. "We should leave. It is not wise to linger around dead men."

Malik sighed. He took the water-skin from Altaïr and shook it, but it was empty. His throat was already beginning to burn. "You still wish to travel with us?"

There was a long pause before Shindouk nodded.

"Why?" Altaïr asked bluntly. As Malik cursed under his breath he continued. "Many men would speak of witchcraft. Of magic. I assure you that these orbs are nothing of the sort."

"I care not what it is, only that it saved my life," Shindouk said pragmatically. "I would still travel with you, if you are willing."

"And the orb?"

"Keep it if you like. But I may reconsider my decision to travel with you if you use it again."

"I think we are all agreed on that," Malik said between gritted teeth. "We sought the orbs for protection, not to turn them to our own ends."

"They bear further study," Altaïr protested.

Malik saw both guide and camels walking away in his mind's eye. "Altaïr," he said, "be silent."

The other Assassin's eyes narrowed. "You will see reason."

"I have seen what it can do!" Malik snapped. "And I tell you that you are a fool if you want any part of it!"

"I am your Master." Altaïr said quietly.

"So was Al Mualim, and I went against his wishes. And if you think I will stand by while you meddle with forces you do not understand, you are sorely mistaken. I would kill you myself rather than see you become like the Old Man!"

"You could try-"

"Peace!" Shindouk shouted. Malik looked up through a fence of knobbly camel legs as the Tuareg wheeled his camels. "There will be no more talk of killing. It is a long way to Morocco and our agreement still stands. We will not get far by arguing. Let us find water. Our tempers will all be improved. And let us leave this cursed place."

Malik subsided. He held out the orb, still wrapped in his sash, and Altaïr took it from him and tucked it in his robe. He swung himself aboard his camel and they left the killing field behind.

For days, they saw nothing else. The flies and the heat and the endless plains of gravel or salt or saffron-hued sand blended one into each other. They camped beneath salt-bushes and stumpy acacias and filled their water-skins with brackish water that tasted of gravel and rotting plants.

Shindouk was right. It was a long way to Morocco.

It gave Malik time to think.

The slaughter of the Kel Amenar had done nothing to endear the Eden fragments to him. The sight of the murdered men lying in the sand haunted his mind. The burning city's spires merged with his memories, and the flames cast their lurid light over street over street of corpses.

If Altaïr had caused the deaths of so many people simply by attempting to create an illusion that would allow them to pass in safety, what could somebody do with real malice? Real power? What could de Sable have done? What would the Templars do?

He still had no answers when they reached the oasis of Sijilmasa. Shindouk pitched a tent and they stayed there for a few days to give the camels time to graze. Shindouk scouted around the other caravans camped there, gossiping with the other Tuareg guides while he planned the safest route to Fez. Altaïr haunted the tent restlessly: impatient as a leashed hawk to reach Masyaf. He kept the Apple hidden, and spoke rarely.

Malik wandered besides the narrow irrigation channels of water that the oasis' few farmers had dug to carry water to their date trees. He saw none of it. In his mind's eye he saw the city burning. He saw the pale towers of Masyaf and the stone walls of Jerusalem and the red cross of the Templars spreading over all like a plague. He recalled Nusaybah's dark eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably.

_Jerusalem and Masyaf to the east_, he thought. _Fez to the north. And west lies the Hesperides, and the third Eden fragment... and the Templars._

It was an unsettling thought. Malik tried to conjure up the image of Nusaybah again, without success.

He did not want to search for the third orb. He wanted to return to the company of his brothers in the civilised East. He could watch the Templars from the towers of Masyaf, in safety and comfort.

He knew that he would not.

Malik sighed and returned to the tent. Shindouk had pitched camp a short walk from the centre of the oasis; close enough to see the date-palms but not close enough to annoy the farmers. Camels milled around the black goat-hair awning and left two-toed tracks in the sand. Malik ducked inside. The tent was open to the wind on three sides but the air was close and humid. Altaïr sat with his back against the central tent-pole; cleaning his knives. He looked up as Malik approached. "Shindouk says it's going to rain."

Malik sighed with relief. He was glad to be back in a place where it rained. "We need to talk."

Altaïr set down his knife. "Good," he said. "You've changed your mind?"

Malik nodded. He moved a few daggers and sat down opposite Altaïr. "Yes. The orb-"

"Good," Altaïr interrupted. "We must understand the Apples, Malik. Learn of them so this will never happen again, and-"

"Understand?" Malik frowned. "It is you who does not understand, Altaïr. I speak of the third Eden fragment. I have not changed my mind about _that_ subject. Nor do I wish to."

"The third fragment?"

"The Hesperides." Malik said. "I would go and fetch the orb for you. There are plenty of caravans leaving in that direction. It is the best use of our resources. You return to Masyaf, and I'll bring you the orb."

"It's dangerous."

"Do you think I don't know that? It is my duty."

He watched Altaïr consider the idea. Finally the other Assassins gathered the blades strewn around him and pushed a few of the weapons over to Malik. "Go, if you like. I assume you have something planned."

"Yes," said Malik, who did not.

"You'll return quickly to Masyaf?"

"As quickly as I can." Malik said. He had not expected Altaïr to give his consent that easily. But the other Assassin had seen the same visions, and he doubtless had the same concerns as Malik. The more he knew about the Apple's abilities, the more important it became to keep the Eden Fragments from Templar hands.

"Then I give you leave to go as you desire." Altaïr reached into his robe. "One thing-" He withdrew the orb, still wrapped in Malik's scarlet sash. "Take it."

Malik recoiled from the orb as he could have from a deadly snake. "No."

Altaïr offered the orb again. When Malik did not take it he dropped it on the carpet between them. "You may need it. If we had faced the Kel Amenar alone we would have died. We need every weapon we have to fight the Templars."

"We have no need of weapons such as that!" Malik protested. He thought for a moment. "Besides, what if the Templars murder me and steal it from my corpse? You would wish I had not taken it then."

Altaïr sighed. "You have a talent for thinking the worst of a situation," he said.

"This is because I have known you," Malik retorted.

"You'll go now?"

Malik nodded.

"What of Nusaybah?" Altaïr enquired. It was an innocent enough question, but Malik thought he detected a hint of mockery behind the words. He decided to ignore it. "The order comes first. I'd appreciate if you'd take a message to her, though. Tell her I will return to Jerusalem as soon as I can."

This time there was more than a hint of mockery in Altaïr's voice. "The Order does not exist to deliver _correspondence_, Malik. Neither does it exist to organise your affairs."

"It was hardly an affair. It-oh, never mind. You are enjoying this."  
" Not at all," Altaïr said.

Malik scowled. "I don't doubt that you'll find some way to tell her. Keep the orbs locked up, Altaïr. It is not worth the risk. Where are the others?"

"The boy is off watering the camels. Shindouk has gone down to the oasis."

"Good. I'll meet him there." Malik scooped up the knives and rose to his feet. He picked up his pack from the corner of the tent and tucked the weapons into the sheaths stitched to its straps.

"You'll not wait?" Altaïr's expression was unreadable beneath his heavy hood.

"The trail to the mountains begins here. It's as good a place to leave as any other. I'll not waste time."

"We'll meet again."

"I don't doubt it. I'll meet you at Masyaf in a year." Malik considered the large distances involved and conceded. "Maybe more."

"Safety and peace, then."

"Safety and peace," Malik said, and he left.

He found Shindouk without much difficulty. The terrain was rocky instead of sandy, and springs were frequent in the mountains, so he was spared the embarrassment of asking for a camel or a guide. Shindouk listened to his plan sceptically, but, like Altaïr, he did not try to persuade him out of it. "You'll travel alone? At least let me give you a map."

Malik accepted both map and directions gratefully. When all was done he slung his pack across his shoulders and set off into the hills.

He had travelled for nearly a day before Marîd caught up with him. Malik saw him three hills across. He could have avoided the boy easily, but chose to wait instead. "What are you doing here?" he asked as Marîd came up panting, and wondered why he bothered even as the words left his mouth. It was obvious what the boy was up to.

Marîd smiled, displaying a flash of white teeth. "I thought I would travel with you."

Malik sighed and sat down on a rock at the side of the path. He offered the boy water which he gratefully accepted. "Why? If this is repayment for the poison, you need not."

Marîd shook his head with his mouth full. "I must make amends," he said when he had swallowed.  
Malik took back the water bottle. He understood. It was what he would have done at Marîd's age, which was why it was s stupid decision. "Look," he said. "Return to your master. Sell books. Study. Forget all you have learned about Templars and Assassins. Live a normal life."

The boy shrugged. "You don't live a normal life."

"I had no choice," Malik said briefly. "Does your master know that you're here?"

"No," Marîd admitted reluctantly. His face cleared. But he will understand."

"I doubt that." Malik said sourly.

"I'd rather be an Assassin than a bookseller."

"Then you are a fool. Boys like you don't become Assassins."

"Why not?"

"Well, for a start," Malik snapped, "you are not Syrian."

Marîd smiled tentatively. "Altaïr mentioned Assassins in other countries. I could help."

"You will hinder. Or you will only get yourself killed. It is the same thing."  
"I did try to kill you," the boy said stubbornly. "That should count for something."

"I would not mention that." Malik said.

"You could teach me."

Malik got up. He turned away, but the boy followed him like a particularly persistent fly. "I have neither the patience nor the inclination."

"I'm a fast learner."

"It's not just killing, you know."

"Then what _is_ it?"

Malik sighed. "Have you heard of something called the Creed?" he said.

_Finis._

Author's Note:

Well, it's done. I've some ideas for a sequel too, though to be honest I am shortly leaving on a bus to Australia and will be away from my computer for at least seven months, so it's unlikely to be soon. I think this fic is crying out for a sequel where Malik and Marid have to infiltrate the Atlas Templar stronghold to steal the third orb. The stronghold is probably hidden in a Kasbah, possibly in Ait Benhaddou (google it) or something (thought I think the period might be a little early for that) and there may be mention of the cool system of sunken wells (qanats or khettara) used in that region to irrigate the desert.

Anyway.

The account of the nomads ripping themselves apart was inspired by from a comment on Vidic's email in the first AC: _I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I SAW HIM. HE HAD A METAL BALL. IT OPENED. THEY WENT CRAZY. SHOOTING. STABBING. TORE EACH OTHER TO PIECES. I KNOW IT WAS YOU PEOPLE. SAW THE LOGO. HEARD THE NAME. I'M GOING TO TELL._

And at the risk of being unbearably pretentious and taking this fanfiction thing way too seriously, I have attached a small bibliography. The T.E Lawrence is good for accounts of camel-charges; the numerous books by de Villiers and Hirtle for evocative descriptions of the area and quotes.

Bibliography

Arabian Sands by Wilfred Thesiger.

Assassins: The Story of Medieval Islam's Secret Sect by W. B Bartlett.

Into Africa: A Journey through the Ancient Empires by Marq de Villiers and Sheila Hirtle.

Sahara: The Life of the Great Desert by Marq de Villiers and Sheila Hirtle.

The Assassin Legends: Myths of the Isma'ilis by Farhaad Daftary.

The Ismaili Assassins: A History of Medieval Murder by James Waterson.

The Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T.E Lawrence.

Timbuktu: The Sahara's Fabled City of Gold by Marq de Villiers and Sheila Hirtle.


End file.
